


Let Chaos Be Undone

by ViolaCesario



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Mostly canon though, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:14:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9706967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaCesario/pseuds/ViolaCesario
Summary: The long and winding tale of Hope Trevelyan: warrior, poor chess player, composer of her own imaginary epitaphs.When Hope lies her way out of completing her templar training to join the guards in Kirkwall, she doesn't expect to be caught up in the grim beginnings of the Mage-Templar War. Four years later, she is sent as her family's emissary to the Conclave, but the negotiations do not end well.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> In which the pieces are assembled and placed reverently on the chessboard, awaiting the arrival of the opposing players.

Now her hand is raised  
A sword to pierce the sun  
With iron shield she defends the faithful  
Let chaos be undone  
-Victoria 1:3

 

Modest in temper, bold in deed.  
\--Trevelyan family motto

 

Kirkwall was on fire. Again.

Adjusting the red bandanna that covered her nose and mouth, Hope tried to blink away the tears blurring her vision from all the smoke. She didn’t know how long she’d been fighting her way through the streets of Lowtown, finding survivors and escorting them back to the relative safety of the Keep, but she was sweating like a horse and her sword and shield were getting heavier by the moment. Not to mention that she’d given her last potion to an injured mother, whose children she couldn’t bear to orphan through inaction. And she’d let her fellow guardswoman Lia have her helm after the poor elf lost hers to a particularly vicious fire spell.

Right, you’re a bloody hero, she told herself. Father will put it on your memorial once this is all over. _Hope Trevelyan, beloved daughter, probably wishes she’d married that margrave’s son from Ansburg even though he was a tit._ They’ll have to burn you in effigy, because they won’t be able to scrape together enough of a corpse for a proper pyre.

She couldn’t believe it had come to this--or she could, but it was one thing to wonder when mages and templars would wage war openly in the streets, and quite another thing entirely to be caught in the middle of it. And the Chantry… all those people…

“Stop woolgathering, guardswoman,” called Sergeant Melindra. “We still need to check the Foundry district.”

Hope couldn’t manage a salute, so she settled for a sharp “yes, ser” and kept walking. It was more of a scuttle, really, trying to maintain a proper defensive stance in case they ran into any more aggressive templars or blood mages or--

“Demons!” shouted the sergeant. A pair of shades rose from the ground, like darkness given form and giant creepy claws. 

At least it’s not the fire ones, Hope thought.

Training and adrenaline kicked in at the same time. Hope bellowed a challenge at the nearest demon and crossed the distance between them quickly, thrusting at what she hoped was something vital. It felt like attacking a particularly solid breeze, but the blows she blocked with her shield were hard enough to make her arm tremble. 

A claw swipe snuck through her defenses and tore open her right cheek, the pain burning like ice. With a snarl, she redoubled her efforts until her whole world narrowed to slashing and parrying, ducking and sidestepping and advancing, even striking with her shield to little avail.

An age later, the creature disappeared in a cloud of hazy shadow, and Hope moved on to help the sergeant dispatch her own enemy. They stood in silence for a few moments after, trying to catch their breath. Hope’s blood buzzed in her ears, her shoulders and lower back ached, and she could swear she heard a distant ringing like Chantry bells on a feast-day.

“Are you well?” the sergeant asked, gesturing at Hope’s face.

“I’ll be fine,” Hope replied, despite the stinging pain. She could feel blood trickling down her cheek to soak the now-torn bandanna scrunched around her neck.

“Don't be foolhardy.” The sergeant pulled a poultice from a belt pouch and offered it to Hope, who hesitated for only a moment before taking it gratefully.

“How many more of those do you think there are?” she asked, pressing it against her wound.

“It’s said that shades are the spirits of the dead returned from the Fade,” Sergeant Melindra muttered. “How many people have died here tonight?”

The thought chilled Hope to the bone even as it stoked a fire in her chest. She’d put a half dozen people to the sword herself already, Templar and mage alike, and who knew how many had perished in the Chantry explosion? From falling debris? From smoke and flame?

“Let’s help them find their way to the Maker’s bosom,” she replied. “I suppose it must be quite large if it’s to fit everyone.”

A laugh escaped the sergeant, like a startled bird taking flight. 

The two guards returned to their grim work, weary and stained with blood and ash. In the distance, the fate of the city was decided, and the fires of Kirkwall spread until they threatened to consume all the world.

#

The barracks were extra crowded as the morning shift returned from their beats and the night shift arrived to take over, or rolled out of their respective beds. Some guards had always lived elsewhere in the city, others always in the barracks, but more than usual had found themselves homeless after the battle a month earlier.

Hope lived in the barracks. She had no relatives in Kirkwall, and her family in Ostwick would be more inclined to have her visit them than to journey to the City of Chains themselves. Not that they ever asked her to visit; they didn’t think she could.

Her feeble attempts to eat an apple with one hand and polish a spot on her breastplate with the other were interrupted by Lia strolling up and nudging her leg.

“Guard-Captain wants to see you,” Lia said.

“Did she say why?” Hope asked. The elf shook her head and left with a flick of her fingers to her forehead.

Hope tucked her rag into a pocket and discarded her rapidly browning fruit with a sigh. Maybe she could sneak some cheese later on her way out.

Why did the guard-captain want her, she wondered as she crossed the room. Assignments were normally posted on the board, and she couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong--or right, for that matter--to warrant special attention.

The simplest and most unfortunate answer presented itself just as she knocked on her superior’s office door, and was confirmed when the door swung open.

“Guardswoman Trevelyan. Or should I say, Lady Trevelyan.” Guard-Captain Aveline stood behind her large desk, her armor immaculate as always, her expression stony. Her posture and tone conveyed her barely concealed annoyance. “I believe you have something to tell me, and my unexpected guests.”

The other occupants of the office, to Hope’s dismay, were her sister Grace and her brother Victor.

It shouldn't have surprised her that her family would send someone to retrieve her, but Hope had been too busy helping with the rebuilding efforts to give anything else much thought. Her mother would have been ashamed at her lack of foresight. Whether in chess or ballroom politics, the elder Trevelyan had always schooled her children in paying attention and staying ten steps ahead of, well, everyone else.

Hope had never been particularly good at chess.

“Hope, thank goodness you’re well,” Grace said, practically throwing herself at her sister. “Look at your face--what a scar! But I suppose we should thank the Maker you’re alive at all.” Her hair smelled of crystal grace, as if she’d bathed before coming. Which, knowing Grace, she probably had. 

Hope awkwardly wrapped an arm around the shorter girl. “You’ll stain your dress,” she murmured, thinking of her armor polish. Grace was dressed like any other noble in Kirkwall, all tight bodice and flared skirt in a becoming shade of crimson. 

“I’ll get a new one.” Grace took a step back and searched Hope’s eyes, her own shimmery with unshed tears. “We’ve been worried sick about you ever since we heard what happened.”

“I sent you a raven to tell you I was fine. Two ravens.”

“Yes, but--”

“You’re in a revolting amount of trouble,” Victor said. He apparently hadn’t bothered to bathe, probably because he was loathe to strip out of the ceremonial family armor he wore. A rampant stallion was worked into the metal of the breastplate, and she knew if he turned around she would see the full Trevelyan coat of arms painted on the shield hung on his back. His hand rested on the sword at his side, peace-tied with a red cord.

The guard-captain cleared her throat, pinning Hope with a stern look. “Your family seems to have expected you to be with the templars, rather than here.”

“Yes, ser,” Hope replied. “I’ve been telling them as much.” And paying one of the templars to bring her any letters that went to the Gallows, to make sure the illusion was maintained. The poor man had died in the battle, and the templar she’d begged to replace him had either failed in his duty, or had outright betrayed her confidence. 

“Three years, Hope,” her brother said. “Father is livid. He should have made sure you went to the Ostwick Circle, instead of indulging your ridiculous nonsense about helping to rebuild here after that business with the Qunari.”

“I did help,” she retorted, though clearly they both knew that wasn’t why she’d requested the transfer. 

She’d gone to the templar training refuge older than the other recruits; despite her father’s devotion to the faith, she was still his little girl, and he’d kept her at home for as long as he dared. He’d made sure she was proficient in combat, but she was nonetheless compelled to relearn based on templar methods, and her own faith and loyalty to the order were weaker than if she’d begun indoctrination as a child.

She’d turned eighteen, and it had been time to take her vows, but the knight-captain conducting her training had determined she wasn’t ready. A year passed, then another, leaving her the eldest recruit over and over as the others endured their vigils and were sent away to various Circles. Then the Qunari had attacked, and she’d formed her plan. 

She’d insisted to the knight-captain that she would undergo her vigil as soon as she reached Kirkwall, but she suspected he didn’t believe her. She still wasn’t sure why he’d let her go anyway, but once permission had come from her father, he hadn't forced the issue. Perhaps he knew the vigil would fail, or he believed an unwilling templar was a danger to herself and others. Perhaps he thought she really would go to the templars in Kirkwall, and they’d be able to succeed with her where he hadn’t.

“Why did Father send you, anyway?” Hope asked. “If he thinks I’m going to the Circle now--”

“Mother sent us,” her sister said softly. 

Of course she did, Hope thought. Her father would have sent a rude letter, which Hope would have been able to ignore. She couldn’t look away from Grace’s big, sad eyes so easily.

“She wants you to come home,” Grace continued. “Ostwick has been quiet, but there’s word of other Circles rebelling. More importantly, she heard the First Enchanters are planning to meet in Cumberland soon, to vote on whether to secede from the Chantry entirely.”

Hope stared at her sister, mouth hanging open. Secede? They couldn’t possibly. The Chantry wouldn’t stand for it. The templars would be up in arms everywhere, the whole world echoing the violence and death that had blown through Kirkwall like a wild summer storm.

“She wants me to hide,” Hope said. “To cower in our keep and pray for the Maker to shield us if everything goes to shit.”

“She wants you to help protect our lands and our people instead of bloody Kirkwall,” Victor snapped. “If she and Father thought you were some delicate flower, you’d have been dedicated to the Chantry instead of the templars.” He gripped the pommel of his sword and glared at her, dark eyes narrowed. After a tense moment, Hope realized she was doing the exact same thing and forced herself to relax her hand.

“Enough.” Guard-Captain Aveline leaned forward, palms on her desk. “As touching as this reunion is, I have no end of work to do. Lady Trevelyan, you are a duly appointed guard and you have served well in your time here. If you wish to be relieved of duty, you may go with my blessing.”

“And if I don’t?” Hope asked, a lump forming in her throat.

“Then you or someone else will escort your guests off the premises, and you will return to your post. Your choice.”

“Now see here, Guard-Captain,” Victor snapped. “My father is a bann of Ostwick, and if you attempt to forcibly remove us, the viscount will--”

“Victor, hush,” Grace said. “I'm certain Father isn’t interested in causing a diplomatic incident. Hope?” She pleaded silently, eyes wide, while Victor stood with his back so straight he might have had a spear up his ass. 

Or a halberd, Hope mused, suppressing a smirk.

She thought of the friends she’d made in Kirkwall, the ones she’d lost and the ones who remained. She thought of all the homes she’d helped rebuild after the first battle, the families she’d helped feed and clothe, only to have to do it all over again in the wake of more and worse conflict. She thought of the years in between, dealing with gangs and cultists and blood mages. She thought of everything and everyone she’d fought for, that one long night when the sky rained fire and demons roamed the streets. Leaving felt like an abandonment of all that, like giving up on her self-appointed duty.

Then she thought of her family, her brothers and sisters, her cousins and aunts and uncles. She thought of the people she'd left behind in the bannorn: the knights and guards who lived in the keep, the servants and gardeners and grooms and cooks and tutors who kept the massive property in order. She thought of the farmers whose fields she'd grown up barefoot in and the townsfolk who had tolerated her boundless curiosity about their lives. She thought of climbing trees and riding her horse through rolling green hills and walking along the cliffs that overlooked the last vestiges of the Waking Sea as it flowed into the Amaranthine Ocean.

She imagined all of that wreathed in fire, templar and mage staining it with the blood of her family, her people, demons and abominations conjured from death and despair to torment those left living. She wouldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t. Her very nature wouldn’t allow it, and her mother knew that.

Checkmate, Mother, she thought. You’ve outplayed me again.

Hope stood at attention and saluted. “It has been an honor to serve you, Guard-Captain,” she said.

“You didn't serve me,” the guard-captain replied. “You served the people of Kirkwall, as do we all.” She quirked a half-smile at Hope. “Don't forget to turn in your arms and armor to the quartermaster.”

“The sword is mine,” Hope said quickly.

“The armor then.” The guard-captain inclined her head at Grace and Victor. “Lord and Lady Trevelyan. May your journey home to the bannorn be swift and safe.”

Grace nodded and murmured a polite reply, while Victor swept out of the room with an expression like someone had twisted the halberd up his ass. Grace took Hope’s arm and together they left, with Hope wondering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

#

The years passed, sometimes slowly as sap trickling from a tree, sometimes in quick leaps like deer fleeing from the baying of hounds.

Hope crouched in a fighting stance in the training yard of her family’s keep, her exertions and the mid-morning sun already coating her in sweat. Her sparring partner had given her name only as Livvy; a recruit from one of the smaller villages in the bannorn, the girl had arrived a few weeks earlier with fresh scars on her arms and vengeance in her eyes. Ostwick’s neutrality was being tested, and if Livvy were any indication, it would be defended vigorously.

“You're tall-manning again,” Hope told her. “Legs apart, knees bent, keep your center of balance low for stability. And if I hear a snicker out of you one more bloody time, Clifton Poole, you’ll be doing laps around the yard until you throw up.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the offending recruit straighten as if struck.

“Lady Trevelyan,” a voice called from the edge of the yard. One of her mother’s maids stood with her hands clasped primly in front of her.

Hope lowered her sword. “Yes, Potter?”

“Your presence is required.” Potter bobbed a curtsey, staring demurely at the ground.

Hope gestured at the assembled soldiers-in-training. “Pair off and practice like I showed you. Ser Tom, if you please, come supervise.” A knight who had been leaning on a post in the shade sauntered over and cast a sharp eye on the proceedings while Hope followed the maid into the house.

She was led to her mother’s sitting room, which overlooked the water maze on the eastern side of the estate. Raised platforms were arranged in concentric circles within a carefully tended pond, with some of the platforms mounted so they would lower into the water when stepped on, simultaneously spraying the unlucky victim in the face--or chest, or missing them entirely in the case of one of the dwarven gardeners. The correct path led to the center of the maze, where a statue of blessed Andraste waited inside a small stone alcove, to silently congratulate those patient and careful enough to find her. 

It was intended to be a meditative experience, but Hope and her siblings had delighted in chasing each other until they were all thoroughly soaked. After so many years, she knew the maze too well to fall prey to its traps unintentionally.

She wished she could say the same about her mother’s.

Bann Trevelyan joined her a few minutes later, the picture of noble elegance in a tight-waisted navy gown that flared at her hips. Her hair was pinned in elaborate braids atop her head, and her makeup was carefully applied to enhance the good qualities nature had bestowed. She wrinkled her nose at her daughter and reached for a bell on a side table, which summoned Potter.

“Be a dear and fetch some scented water and a towel for the young mistress,” she told the maid, who hurried off without a word.

“Is that a polite way of saying I smell like a horse in a lather?” Hope asked.

“Your words, darling, not mine. I would ask you to sit, but the brocade is so difficult to clean properly.”

“Of course.” Hope watched her mother lower herself gracefully onto a settee, resting against one of the arms in a way that managed to look both relaxed and entirely contrived.

“How goes the training?” the bann asked.

“Same as yesterday: slowly, but in the right direction.” Hope crossed her arms. “That’s supper talk, Mother. As much as I delight in the typical dance suite of courtly conversation, perhaps we can dispense with the allemande and get straight to the gigue.”

Her mother favored her with a close-lipped smile. “You’re not so impertinent with strangers, I hope.”

“I’m the very embodiment of hope,” she said drily. “But I fear you mistake me for Prudence.”

That earned her a laugh, and a real smile.

“Very well, I’ll indulge your impatience.” Bann Trevelyan’s face settled back into an unreadable mask. “It has been confirmed that Divine Justinia intends to hold a conclave, to broker peace between the templars and mages.”

“Maker’s breath.” Hope nearly collapsed into a chair, but remembered the brocade and crossed her arms instead. “Do you think she can make it work, after everything that’s happened?”

“Really, dear, you're turning this gigue into a tumble behind the stables. In a moment I'll have Potter retrieve a chessboard, and you'll get no more out of me until you win.”

“My apologies, Mother.” Hope took a steadying breath. “Are negotiations still proceeding between the factions in regards to the time and location?”

“No, that's been settled. It will be at the Temple of Sacred Ashes at the beginning of Drakonis.”

Hope bit back her response as she eyed her mother, thinking. That meant virtually anyone attending would have time to celebrate First Day before beginning their journey--though Wintersend might be out of the question for some--and they’d be back home before spring planting unless negotiations were protracted. As for the location, it was as neutral as might be achieved under the circumstances, despite technically being on Fereldan soil, and it granted a certain… aura of holiness that might work in the Divine’s favor.

“May Andraste guide them all,” Hope said.

“I am sure she will,” her mother replied drily. “But she may be difficult to hear among the many other voices expected to be in attendance.”

Of course it wouldn't be merely templars and mages at the conclave; the war had much farther reaching consequences than that. Hope thought of the scars on Livvy’s arms, then those on her own face, which led to dark thoughts of Kirkwall that were interrupted by Potter’s return with the requested cleaning accoutrements.

The water smelled faintly of crystal grace, light and sweet, and Hope washed herself carefully as she thought. Her mother didn't interrupt, which meant she expected Hope to come to her own conclusions before confirming or denying them.

No doubt some commoners would make the pilgrimage to the sacred site, which had been rediscovered during the blight that plagued Ferelden a decade earlier. But Bann Trevelyan wouldn't be concerned with their complaints and pleas, inasmuch as they were unlikely to affect their bannorn in Ostwick, which was her purview. That left more courtly considerations.

So other noble houses must be sending delegations as well, either to advocate for the templars or mages, or to curry favor with the Divine. If enough representatives attended, it might even be a way to secure or reaffirm alliances with each other that would profit them more directly.

Hope dried her face and arms, feeling refreshed. “Is there a specific goal our emissary will be expected to achieve?” she asked, and was rewarded by a coy smile.

“You are aware of your father’s opinions on the situation, as he dances measurably worse than you do,” Bann Trevelyan replied. “For myself, I have never had the grand ambitions of some of our neighbors, or their prejudices. I welcome opportunities to flourish, but am content with stability and security. A steady pace makes a light journey for horse and man.”

Hope rather thought sometimes there was a need for a good gallop, but she kept it to herself. Instead, she asked, “Will you be sending Victor or Faith? You can't spare Justin since he inherits, Grace is big as a house, and Prudence is--oh.”

Her mother’s smile now carried a touch of sadness. “Give yourself a few moments next time, dear. You're not as quick as Grace, but you're sharp enough to cut through in the end.”

The enormity of what was being asked was not lost on her. She was the youngest child, with little dowry to speak of and few marriage prospects--not that she was interested in marriage. And so long as the war continued she would never be pledged to the templars--not that she wanted to be, really, and she suspected that ship had long since sailed regardless. As her family’s representative, she would be positioned to advance their house or weaken its foundations, and potentially establish a reputation for herself that could grant her opportunities abroad, and a degree of independence she would not otherwise have in Ostwick. 

Not to mention that she might have some sway in any compromise between the warring factions, given her history. 

“I was in Kirkwall,” she murmured.

“Indeed. Not witness to the final unpleasantness in the Gallows, perhaps, but your relative neutrality and valiant efforts in defense of the common people could prove… useful.”

Hearing the events of that night, and the years preceding it, recounted so calmly, so distantly, raised heat in Hope’s face and neck. Her father had been furious at her subterfuge when she returned home, for all that it had likely saved her from a worse fate, but her mother had managed to spin a positive tale for their relatives and neighbors through her usual careful applications of charm and wit. Hope had found it uncomfortable at first, then grown to tolerate it, but the idea of it being used as leverage now left a taste in her mouth like raw spindleweed.

“My sweet little Hope,” her mother said gently. “Do stop making that face. Four years since you left that blighted city, and still I have not been able to remove your heart from your sleeve and return it to your chest.”

Hope flushed. “Now who’s tumbling behind the stables,” she murmured, looking out the window, at the maze circling its way peacefully through the pond and the statue of Andraste waiting at its center.

She heard her mother rise from the settee and turned to see the woman clasping her hands together in front of her. “In any event, you will not be unaccompanied,” Bann Trevelyan said. “Sanders will go as your secretary, to help draw up any necessary contracts, and of course you will take Howell as your lady maid. Ser Gertrude and Ser Earnest will--” She sniffed. “Well, you will protect yourself, I am sure, but they will assist you in protecting the others.”

“I’m not the only Trevelyan who will be in attendance?” Hope asked.

“I should think not. Certainly your great-aunt Lucille will send a representative, and Dorner, and your cousin Osher might spare someone, though her loyalty is principally to House Bayart now. And Albrecht may--”

“Albrecht? He couldn’t find his own trousers with both hands if he were wearing them.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Darling, I may share your sentiment, but you are too much your father’s daughter at the moment. School yourself to silence if you cannot speak civilly.”

Hope gave her mother an elaborate, deep bow. “Most esteemed Bann Trevelyan, I offer my humble and abject apologies for my impertinence. I expect you will be re-educating me in proper dance forms over the coming months, that I not embarrass myself with a clumsy galliard.”

“Your apology is not accepted, because you certainly are not sorry, and that was thick as treacle. I will send for you at tea time. Do wash up and dress yourself presentably.” Bann Trevelyan plucked a small hand bell from a nearby table and rang it, summoning Potter, who curtseyed and awaited instructions.

Knowing a dismissal when she saw one, Hope bowed again and left her mother to her business. She found herself loathe to return to the training grounds, although the prospect of beating a pell into submission was pleasant. She couldn’t keep her head straight enough to dream of dealing with the recruits, and Ser Tom likely had them well in hand. 

A conclave. A chance for peace. The weight of her family responsibility resting squarely on her shoulders. And perhaps a future beyond drilling recruits, patrolling the bannorn, or giving up sword and shield for hatpin and fan, to be freed from her parents and eldest brother only to find herself captive to someone else.

Perhaps a turn in the water maze will do me good after all, Hope mused, and proceeded in that direction, her stormy thoughts at odds with the bright sun and cloudless blue sky overhead.

#

Hope and her retinue left Ostwick a week after Wintersend. The journey to Haven took over a fortnight, with the Waking Sea unseasonably calm on the passage to Jader. They docked at Kirkwall briefly to resupply, but Hope had little time to do more than wander the docks listlessly, watching the dockhands move cargo and the merchants barter, the once-familiar smell of fish and garbage filling her lungs. She’d kept in touch with a few guards and other cityfolk through letters, but those had slowed, and then stopped, until Hope was embarrassed to try rekindling a fire gone cold. Her mother had always scolded her poor hand at correspondence, and as she wondered whether any of the helmed figured patrolling the area had been her friends once, she had to admit the elder Trevelyan was right.

After reaching Jader, they began the long ride toward Gherlen’s Pass, then along the western shore of Lake Calenhad. The early spring weather was cool, the horses content to trot along the well-traveled roads with the many others making the same journey, most on foot, some mounted. Wagons laden with goods also accompanied them, as the quantity of people expected at the conclave would need to be fed, if nothing else. Most of the supplies were what was left from the long winter--hard cheeses and pickled vegetables and beans, Maker’s ass, Hope was so sick of beans--but there were fresh eggs and fish and bread at inns that hadn’t been completely overrun by travellers. Any beer they found was, sadly, very Fereldan, and Hope had to keep herself from pinching her nose when she drank it.

The fighting between templar and mage had, for the moment, ebbed like a tide. Members of each side traveled to Haven, some alone, others in groups of a half dozen or more. The mages blended in, so long as they didn’t carry staves, but the templars were nearly impossible to miss, armed and armored as they were.

They avoided each other for the most part, but Hope had to break up more than one argument before it ended in swords and spells, or worse, abominations.

“Don't know why you bother, my lady,” Ser Earnest told her after the second time, as they returned to the road they'd temporarily abandoned. “Might as well let the templars do their duty.”

“Which duty would that be, ser?” Hope replied. If he noticed the chill in her tone, he ignored it.

“Putting those apostates to the sword.”

“That is certainly one interpretation of a templar’s charge.” She tried to edge her palfrey ahead of his, but he matched her speed.

“But my lady, what else can they do?” he asked. “These rebels are running roughshod over Thedas. You of all people should know how dangerous they are.”

Hope could almost feel him staring at the deep lines of her scar. She turned to favor him with a smile that she knew was very like her mother’s, because they had been practicing it for months.

“Do you know how many people I killed in Kirkwall, the night of the Chantry explosion?” she asked, her voice soft as a kid glove.

“N-no, my lady.”

“Eleven. They were neither my first kills nor my last, and far more perished that night than the ones I personally put to the sword.” Her smile did not waver as she leaned toward him, not enough to stir her horse, but enough to make him reflexively inch away. “Of those eleven, five were templars, who attacked me when I attempted to stop them from killing people who weren’t mages.”

Ser Earnest opened and closed his mouth like a fish, and Hope thought that was the end of it, until--

“I’m sure they were simply confused, and frightened, my lady,” he said. “The templars would never--”

“Do you know who else was confused and frightened that night, ser?” she asked. The inflection on the last word made the knight flinch. “Give yourself a moment to think. I’m sure it will come to you.”

With that, she urged her horse into a canter and, as her mother would say, tried to return her heart to her chest. She had let her temper get the better of her again, which did not bode well for her efforts at the conclave. All that time spent teaching her tact and charm would yield nothing if a simple conversation with a close-minded fool could have her snapping like a wild dog.

Still, Ser Earnest did not speak another word to her for the rest of the day, and despite her lingering guilt, Hope’s mood was the better for it.

#

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was surprisingly warm, partly because of the enormous braziers located in the main hall, but mostly because there were so many people crowded into the space. While Hope knew she should have been admiring the building--lovingly restored by the Chantry--and feeling awed at the holiness of the sacred site, she was mostly tired from the journey, past ready to bathe and retire. The longer she waited for someone to locate her room, the less pious she found herself, and part of her was ashamed for that.

At last everything was sorted, and she was led to a chamber with a dozen wooden bunk beds, each with a single trunk at its foot. She had a sudden pang of nostalgia for the barracks in Kirkwall--trying to sleep through the ceaseless din of the common room, the snoring from other bunks, the way Lia sometimes hummed softly to put herself to sleep after a bad night. Some of the beds appeared to be taken already based on their contents, which ranged from articles of clothing clearly meant as territory markers, to actual people, asleep or trying to be.

“This is preposterous, my lady,” her maid Howell murmured from one corner of the room. Hope joined her, finding what she assumed were the bathing accommodations, which consisted of one ewer, empty; one bowl, full of murky water; and a pair of chamber pots, slightly odorous.

Hope regarded the problem with a serious expression. “I'd suggest we move the pots to strategic locations near our new associates, but we cannot be sure which of them is responsible for the… kind welcoming gifts.”

“I shall fetch a chambermaid,” the other woman announced with a sniff, and Hope suppressed a smile.

Sanders approached her next; tall as the man was, she had to crane her neck to look up at his dark eyes in his darker face.

“My lady,” he said. “I would humbly suggest we seek out any others from your house who might have arrived, in order to reacquaint yourself with them over supper.”

Hope eyed her bed and sighed. No rest for the weary. “Lead on, Sanders,” she said. “I'm sure you'll recognize more people than I will.”

And hopefully smelling nice wasn't a prerequisite to polite negotiations, because Hope was also sure anyone in attendance would smell her coming from across the hall.

#

The last few days leading up to the official conclave were a never-ending string of meals, meetings and paperwork. 

Hope didn't know what her parents paid Sanders for his services, but she didn't think it could possibly be enough. Within hours the man had located nearly every noble of note within the entire Temple, with a detailed map to their rooms, an itinerary for when and where to meet them, and suggestions for topics of light conversation pertinent to their interests. He even handled most actual negotiation overtures, giving the slightest cough at the appropriate time and passing the relevant papers to Hope, who passed them to the other noble, who passed them to their own version of Sanders. All Hope had to do was follow him and refrain from saying or doing anything foolish.

It was harder than she expected. She was glad her mother had taken such pains to reinforce the etiquette she'd forgotten from her youth. She was also glad she'd had her argument with Ser Earnest, because it left her better prepared for similar conversations with others.

“The Trevelyans are devoted servants of the Chantry,” she repeated more than once. “We will, of course, abide by whatever Her Holiness deems just. We are certain the Divine’s wisdom will guide us to a lasting peace between templars and mages.”

What she wanted to say was, “Kirkwall was a bloody nightmare,” or, “I wasn’t at the White Spire or Dairsmuid, but they sound like bloody nightmares,” or, after a particularly testy encounter, “templars are about as hard to kill as mages or abominations, in my experience, so perhaps we should lock them up as well,” but that would hardly endear her to anyone, or do her family any good. She had to think of them first, and pray the Divine would have the real negotiations well in hand once they began.

#

On the third day, Hope insisted she needed to get some air. Her sleep had been thin and troubled, and she had an awful feeling--instigated by a comment from Sanders--that one of the nobles was working his nerve up to propose to her. While she could reasonably avoid responding by claiming she needed to consult her parents, she’d still have to face the man afterwards.

She almost envied Ser Gertrude and Ser Earnest, ensconced in Haven with the pilgrims, extended retinues, and templars and mages who weren’t part of official delegations. Briefly, she considered making the journey down the mountain to see them--well, Ser Gertrude, anyway--but it was a long, winding way, and Sanders would be forced to rearrange her schedule further, which might lead to a diplomatic incident.

So, she settled for taking a walk outside and gazing wistfully at Haven in the distance. For all that it was spring, there was still snow on the ground this far up in the mountains. Hope’s experience with snow in Ostwick was the occasional light dusting, so she found the experience enchanting until her face began to burn from the cold, reminding her of how she got the scar on her cheek. She passed a number of mages quietly summoning fire to warm each other, trading off back and forth as they tired of maintaining the spell.

Sanders trailed after her, though Howell had stayed inside, claiming it wouldn’t do for both of them to catch cold, because who would take care of Hope then? One of the many Chantry sisters or mages, Hope thought, but she wasn’t going to argue about it.

The small town looked so peaceful from far away. Easy to believe Brother Genitivi’s stories about people living there in isolation since Andraste’s time, guarding her ashes from outsiders until the Hero of Ferelden found them.

Just north of town, on the shores of a frozen lake, she noticed a small but orderly arrangement of tents. They flew no banner that she could see, but they must have been soldiers of some kind, because several of them appeared to be engaged in training exercises in an open area presumably cleared of snow for that purpose. The sunlight glinted off their armor and swords as they moved, and Hope had an irrational urge to run down and join them.

“Do you know who that is?” she asked Sanders, pointing.

The man squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes. “I believe they arrived with the Right Hand of the Divine. Beyond that, I could not say.”

“Does she normally travel with so many guards?”

To her surprise, the normally stoic Sanders chuckled. “I would not expect them to be her guards. I understand she is an army unto herself.”

“Perhaps she is the Divine’s secret weapon for ending the war, then,” Hope said, glancing sidelong at her secretary. “Everyone play nice, or she’ll send the Right Hand to give them all a spanking.”

Sanders fought to suppress a smile. “Decorum, my lady,” he said. “To impugn the Right Hand is to invite her wrath.”

“I’ll hold my tongue, then, for I certainly can’t face down an entire army alone.” She watched the soldiers drill for a few minutes longer, wondering, yearning, until Sanders finally guided her inside for yet another meeting.

#

The day of the Divine Conclave dawned much like the others, bright and cold, the air sharp and smelling faintly of smoke. If Hope had thought the Temple crowded before, it became doubly so as many of those who had been waiting in Haven began to arrive. Morning prayers were led by one of the grand clerics, as the Divine had been sequestered since she arrived, not wanting to appear to show favor to any of the aggrieved parties. The woman’s sermon focused on faith, humility and forgiveness; Hope thought the assembled templars and mages were not terribly inclined toward it given the dark faces many of them made. Some wept, quietly or openly, and were comforted or berated by their fellows.

How many of them had lost friends, family, lovers? Hope wondered. She knew the cruel gift that was survival, to wake with the knowledge that others wouldn’t, and to think that maybe if you had done something more… But the past was immutable, the future uncertain, and all they could do was attempt to rebuild a broken world so that everyone could live without fear.

And maybe I’ll ride home on a griffon, Hope thought sourly. But as long as I draw breath, I’ll do what I can to help, whatever that may be.

A faint smile touched her lips. That can be on your new memorial, she thought. _Hope Trevelyan, fond of swearing dramatic vows, helped people until it killed her._

Perhaps because of the impending proceedings, Sanders had left her schedule blissfully empty. He no doubt expected her to mingle, and listen, and consider what role she might ultimately play, which is what her mother likely wanted her to do. Or perhaps he thought the Divine herself would summon Hope to hear her story, or to speak to some assembled dignitaries whose opinions she might sway one way or the other. 

Hope had no such delusions of her own importance, and she found the greater volume of people uncomfortable, stifling even. As soon as she could, she sent Sanders and Howell on trivial errands, stripped out of her ceremonial armor and dressed in lighter traveling leathers, resolving to go for another walk outdoors. It might be the last time she would see the sun for days, if testimonies and negotiations did end up keeping her as busy as she had been thus far. She even, in a show of unbridled optimism, packed a book in a small satchel that she slung around her chest.

Unfortunately, just as she was about to escape, a summons came for her. Not from the Divine, of course, but from the noble who was probably going to make an offer of marriage. Maker’s breath, she didn’t want to see the man, and she wasn’t even properly attired. Sanders and Howell would have kittens when they found out, but it would be rude to keep him waiting, and she still might make her escape if she hurried. 

Perhaps seeing me dressed less formally will put him off the subject entirely, she thought.

She followed the servant back to his quarters, trying to remember the route they were taking so she could take the same one back later. Her stomach churned like a rough sea on a rocky shore. This matter was delicate, and she didn’t have Sanders to help, and she was certain to make a mess of things.

Stop it at once, Hope admonished herself. You’re a Trevelyan, and you will act like one. Tell him you are flattered and that you will deliver his petition to your parents as soon as possible, but you cannot possibly accept immediately.

She had no intention of accepting ever, but she’d leave it to her mother to smooth that over.

The servant showed her into his quarters, which were very like hers, including the pair of chamber pots. He paced between the bunks, hands clasped behind his back, head forward like a bull preparing to charge.

“My dear Lady Trevelyan,” he said, smiling when he saw her. If her wardrobe perturbed him, he gave no sign.

“Lord Darrow,” she replied, inclining her head. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Indeed, my lady. Before the Divine consumes the remainder of our time here, I had hoped to discuss a somewhat delicate matter with you.” He rocked back and forth on his feet, hands still behind his back. A terrible nervous habit, Hope thought, and prayed she could be gentle with him.

“Of course, my lord,” she replied. “At your leisure.”

He summoned up his courage from wherever he had hidden it, though this close she could see that he was sweating. “My lady, I am--that is, my family is prepared to, make an offer to your esteemed house--”

Hope plastered a genial smile on her face. “Yes?”

“--for the hand of your sister Prudence, in marriage.”

Her expression must have conveyed her surprise, because Lord Darrow immediately began to explain. “I am aware of her somewhat advanced age as regards childbearing, if you will forgive my impertinence, but we met some months ago and I found her to be most agreeable. I--that is, my family believes such an alliance between our houses would be mutually beneficial.”

“I see,” Hope replied, struggling to control her simultaneous relief and embarrassment at being so mistaken as to his motives.

“You do not approve?” His tone edged toward chilly as he searched her face.

“It is not for me to approve, my lord. I will send a missive to my parents immediately. And Prudence, of course.” She allowed herself a rueful chuckle. “I confess, I came here under the impression you intended to proposition me instead.”

“Marry you? Maker, no!” he exclaimed, then blushed like a virgin at a brothel. “That is, I mean no offense, my lady, for you are… quite becoming, and will no doubt make, eh, a very excellent match for someone. If you desire.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.

“Thank you, my lord, that is kind of you to say.”

“I simply, that is, eh, do not find myself in need of a wife with your particular, eh, set of martial skills. I am sure they are very useful to your family, and you have many other admirable talents, but--”

“I take no offense whatsoever, my lord,” Hope interjected. “Do send me your family’s generous offer, and I shall have my secretary look it over and send word to my parents at once.”

He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well. Yes. I do thank you again for your time. Messy business, this conclave, but perhaps some good will come of it for us.”

“Perhaps it will,” she replied. Though she had a feeling Pru might not be as amenable to the arrangement as Lord Darrow anticipated. That was between her sister and her parents, though.

“Please, do not let me detain you further, Lady Trevelyan,” the man said, his relief at acquitting his duty nearly palpable. “It has been my pleasure to enjoy your company these past few days.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” Hope said, offering a polite bow before leaving the man to his own devices. Probably dry heaving into one of the chamber pots.

Maker’s breath. Her particular set of martial skills. She'd like to see him try that line on the Queen of Ferelden. Or the Champion of Kirkwall. Or the alleged one-woman army that was the Right Hand of the Divine. Though certainly none of those women would give poor Lord Darrow a second look, she mused.

Hope was so busy composing her letter to Prudence in her head--trying to decide between “sweet, but a bit of a tit” and “nug-brained fop”--that she didn't realize she'd gotten turned around at some point until she found herself in an unfamiliar hallway. It curved a bit at the end, so she couldn't see what lay beyond, and given the lack of servants rushing about, she assumed the area was in disuse. Odd, that, given how tightly packed the delegates were in their rooms. Perhaps everyone in the area had simply gone to the main hall already, to be in position when the Divine emerged from her quarters to speak.

The hall suddenly felt strange, thick and heavy, like the promise of a storm. Hope went still, the hairs on her arms rising as her skin prickled. It was a familiar enough sensation, unfortunately, after years in Kirkwall.

Magic.

But where was it coming from? She needed to tell someone, maybe find the Tal-Vashoth mercenaries in charge of security. Maker’s breath, she didn't even have her sword, and of all the times to be wearing nothing but leathers, pauldrons and a coat--

“Someone help me!” a voice cried. It seemed to have come from the end of the hall. 

Without a second thought, Hope raced toward the sound and found a large pair of double doors with the Chantry sunburst above them. Maker preserve me, she prayed, and shoved the doors open with all her strength.

“What's going on here?” she shouted.


	2. Entrée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope tries and fails to seal the Breach, the Inquisition is reborn, and Cullen wrestles with withdrawal and his lack of enthusiasm for their so-called Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pawn to e4. Pawn to e5.

The air itself rent asunder,  
Spilling light unearthly from the  
Waters of the Fade,  
Opening as an eye to look  
Upon the Realm of Opposition  
In dire judgment.  
\--Exaltations 1:2

 

Hope found herself surrounded by fires. Again.

The main difference between this and Kirkwall was the snow, its whiteness and chill a stark counterpoint to the wild orange flames consuming barricades and homes and the occasional unfortunate human. The terrain was also spread out more, wide clearings and tree-lined hills and frozen streams instead of narrow alleyways choked with smoke. And of course, who could forget the enormous swirling green rift in the sky that was alternately pulling things into itself and launching demons all over the Maker’s creation. Kirkwall definitely hadn’t had one of those.

They both have a million blighted stairs, though, Hope thought, as she climbed what was reportedly the last flight of them before reaching the forward camp.

Unfortunately, there was also another one of the rifts, and more demons, between them and their destination.

Hope shouted to attract the creatures’ attention and launched herself at the nearest shade without hesitation, alternately smashing her newly-acquired mace into its solid-air form and bashing it with her shield. A few times she was able to strike just after the mage called Solas had frozen it solid, breaking off chunks that evaporated when they hit the ground. Even so, she almost regretted trading her sword for the weapon; she was out of practice with it, and it had less reach than a proper blade.

To her right, Seeker Cassandra took care of another shade, and Varric--Varric Tethras, Maker’s balls, everyone who'd ever been to the Hanged Man knew him, she owned all his books--and now here he was, sending one crossbow bolt after another into the wraiths hovering at the edges of the fray. Finally, all the demons were gone, and Hope was able to seal the rift using her strange new mark. 

All she had to do was hold her hand up, and a tendril of magic snaked out, beginning a tug-of-war, like a contest of wills between her and the tear. It pulled and she pulled back harder, until the tear closed and her hand was released.

The mark felt vile, like a handful of ants that stung her ceaselessly. Occasionally a shooting pain lanced up her arm and through her whole body, not unlike a bolt of lightning from a mage. More than once she’d almost lost her grip on her shield, or stumbled and shook it off, or even sunk to her knees until the sensation passed.

In a way, it helped her to focus on the task at hand, instead of the enormity of the loss that had been suffered here. If she started to think about it, about her own people--

No. Not now. Not the time. 

Hope pushed through the doors to the camp, removing the helm she’d scavenged from a dead templar as she struggled to control her breathing. She replenished their store of potions and listened to Sister Leliana and Cassandra argue with a pretentious ass who wanted her dead. Hearing them talk, she realized with a start that Cassandra was the one-woman army she’d been told about, the Right Hand of the Divine. The knowledge made her smile for a moment until she remembered the person who’d told her as much was dead.

“You okay, lady?” Varric asked quietly. “You look like a mabari shit in your helmet.”

“Maker, I hope so,” Hope replied. “Otherwise that awful smell is coming from me.”

“I’ll be sure to stay upwind,” he said wryly. “Though I suggest you negotiate for a bath before they haul you off in chains again.”

Hope returned her attention to the conversation in time to be asked how she thought they should get to the temple. She was unable to contain her surprise at the question; her mother would have flogged her verbally for such an outburst. You're a Trevelyan, darling, she could hear her mother say. You were born to power. Accept it when it’s given, and quietly take it when it’s not.

Despite her worry for the missing scouts in the pass, she decided the quickest route would be best. Everyone would be safer once the Breach was sealed.

Except her, perhaps, if that chancellor had anything to say about it. What a rashvine, as her father would say. A splendid fellow, her mother would add.

She followed Cassandra to a door at the other end of the bridge, which opened to reveal… more stairs. Swallowing a curse, she put her helm back on, the remaining soldiers trailing behind her as they made their final push toward the temple.

#

More fires, more bodies, more trees blasted sideways and fragments of crumbled walls. The snow they marched through was coarse and wet, the air eerily still despite the strange clouds swirling around the Breach. 

At last they reached another camp of sorts, full of injured soldiers tending to each others’ wounds as best they could. When Cassandra wasn't looking, Hope snuck a few of her potions to the ones who seemed to need them most. She had a feeling the Seeker wouldn't approve, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't bring back the dead, but she could at least try to keep their numbers from increasing further.

Hope realized she hadn't considered where they'd all come from--so many people ready to fight, pulling together in the face of the apparent end of the world. She assumed most of them were part of the retinues left in Haven by conclave attendees, but some seemed more familiar to the Seeker and Sister Leliana, as if they'd arrived together. Working for the Divine, perhaps?

A mystery to unravel later. Before them lay more stairs and another doorway, to what Hope realized must have been the main hall, given that they now stood in the remains of the vestibule. The doors hadn’t survived, nor the roof. Nor anyone beneath it, except her.

The day is young, she thought. Another modification to my epitaph. Hope Trevelyan, survivor of the explosion that tore a hole in the sky, died trying to close it. Maybe it will tear me to pieces, or send me back into the Fade for good. Maybe I'm already dead and I'll vanish like a spirit once this is over. Maker’s breath, this damn mark hurts, though. You'd think being a spirit would be less painful.

No sense delaying further. With a brief salute to the archers poised atop the wall overhead, she ran up the stairs and through the doorway.

Another rift awaited her, and more demons, being held back by a dwindling squad of fighters. Hope ignored the stairs flanking the entrance in favor of leaping directly toward a shade, bellowing a war cry as she did--too late, for the soldier fighting it fell just as she reached it. With a snarl, she redoubled her efforts and defeated it quickly, not even waiting for it to dissipate before she surged through to the next enemy, then the next. Distantly, she noted that Varric had climbed a sentry tower to better pick off his targets, Solas was trailing behind her at a safe distance, and Cassandra had already passed through a set of spiked barricades erected just in front of the rift. She followed suit and found more shades to contend with, as well as a bevy of wraiths.

She also found a man wearing the most ridiculous helm she'd ever seen, shaped like a lion’s open-mouthed head, and a fur-collared coat to match. Orlesian, perhaps? Their chevaliers were fond of such ornamental nonsense. He seemed to know what he was doing, at least; he deflected a blow from the shade attacking him and swung his sword in a reverse slice from shoulder to hip, dissolving the creature into smoke, then moved to the next foe.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see the other shade coming up behind him.

“Die!” she shouted, lunging toward the demon. She managed to connect solidly with her mace, then hit it with a spinning strike before it could turn to retaliate. Within moments it was merely a lingering stench like a candle blown out, but Hope had no time to celebrate, because the rift sent out green tendrils that spawned more demons, wraiths and shades alike.

Varric had joined them and was flanking a wraith while Solas alternated between casting some kind of barrier spell on the injured and snap-freezing their enemies. Cassandra methodically picked off the wraiths at the periphery, leaving Hope and the lion-warrior to deal with the shades.

Maybe it was her anger at failing to help the fallen soldier, or the knowledge that she was so close to what might be the end of her journey, but Hope fought harder than she could ever remember. She took a ringing blow to her helm that staggered her, then retaliated by lashing out with her shield hard enough that the shade raised its arms dramatically before blowing away on an unfelt wind. A glance to her right showed the man engaged with one final enemy, which she was all too keen to help him dispatch. Realizing that was the last of the demons, Hope raised her hand toward the rift and sealed it.

“Maferath’s hairy ass,” she muttered under her breath, sliding her shield onto her back and shaking her aching hand. Solas complimented her growing proficiency at rift-closing, and she bit back a comment about not wanting to get used to it. One more rift to go--the big one, as Varric called it--and this whole nightmare would be over. Then she could deal with the new nightmare of defending herself against allegations of killing hundreds of people, including the Divine.

Why couldn’t she remember what had happened? She knew she didn’t do it, couldn’t possibly have done it. Could she? No. Hope Trevelyan was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. There was no way she intentionally blew up the Temple; one Chantry explosion was enough for a lifetime.

She hung her mace from her belt and pulled off her helm to inspect the damage. Only scratches, nothing serious. Strange to be wearing any templar armor again after everything she’d been through. It had been what, seven years since she left training? And here she was, sporting the flaming sword again. She had a sudden urge to cast it off, but knew she needed the protection it afforded for now.

Looking up, she realized she wasn’t the only one who’d taken off her helm. More importantly, the lion-man wasn’t an Orlesian chevalier. 

It was the bloody knight-captain of Kirkwall.

“Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?” Cassandra asked him, gesturing at the lion head.

“I suspect I'd be safer without it,” he replied, scowling. “I gave mine to one of the soldiers. Undamaged ones are growing hard to come by.”

“Here, Knight-Captain,” Hope said, holding out her own helm. He stared at it, then at her, as if she'd just offered him a rotting nug.

“That will not be necessary,” he said stiffly, and returned his attention to Cassandra.

Varric chuckled behind her and her cheeks flushed. She put her helm back on, perhaps too emphatically. Of course he'd be offended. Prig.

Cassandra called him “Commander,” she noticed. Commander of what? Had he been promoted in Kirkwall after she left? Wait, then he’d be Knight-Commander, not just Commander. Maker’s breath, why was he even here? If he had come with the templars, why had he not been at the Temple when it--

Her thoughts were interrupted by his sardonic comment about the men they’d lost being worth it, which made Hope stiffen and fall back on what diplomacy she could muster. He seemed to accept it, despite his gruff tone, and before she knew it he was helping one of the soldiers limp back to the camp outside.

Hope watched his retreating form, shaking her head slightly to clear it. She had so many questions, and little expectation of ever having them answered. 

Turning away, Hope moved to the edge of the room, which now ended in a leap into a lower level.

The upthrust rock and broken walls around them glowed with sickly green streaks. Walking on the bones of the dead was bad enough, but to see their flaming corpses contorted into poses of misery was almost more than Hope could bear. She was glad for her helm now, which helped to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. Was one of these Howell? Sanders? Ser Gertrude and Ser Earnest at least had been in Haven, unless they’d left for the Temple with the other pilgrims. She hadn’t seen them, though, among the faces in the crowds calling for her head when Cassandra marched her out of the Chantry.

The Seeker mentioned her earlier story again, about a woman being in the rift behind Hope when she first emerged from the Breach. Hope could almost picture the figure, but the memory was hazy, indistinct, more the bright shape of a woman than an actual person. She didn’t know what to say, so she held her tongue. Her mother would have been proud of her discretion, probably.

They passed into what had been a hallway and came face to face with the base of the Breach itself. It stretched so far up that Hope’s helm almost didn’t let her bend her head back far enough to see its zenith. There was a kind of beauty in the streams of light that flowed up and down like water, stones suspended in them as if they were in a river instead of a vortex leading up to a tear in the very sky. But her awe was tempered by the sheer wrongness of the crystalline portion hovering before them--the way it seemed to fold and warp reality around it, jutting out in one place at one moment only to pull back in on itself and send out another jagged shard of green energy the next. 

How could anyone have created such a thing? And how could she have come to possess the means of stopping it? Could she even stop it, or would all of this be for nothing?

Chin up, Trevelyan, she told herself. Bold in deed. Don’t borrow trouble.

Sister Leliana joined them, readying herself and her troops at intervals along the upper walls as Hope and the others tried to find a way to reach the Breach itself. As they circled the room, they heard echoes of what had happened--someone ordering a sacrifice, the Divine calling for help, and ultimately Hope herself arriving to do… what? Why couldn't she remember?

Just like me to run towards a fight rather than away from it, though, she thought ruefully. I'm here again, aren't I?

At last they leaped down into the crater, Solas warning them that opening the Breach to seal it properly would call attention from the Fade--demons, in other words. But despite all the people around her, despite the exhilaration she felt when the mark did as she willed, Hope was entirely unprepared for what came through.

A pride demon, nearly three times her size, with horns and armor plating and a whip made of… lightning? Its laugh was deep and malicious, sending a shudder of fear through her. Maker, but the Fade must be a nightmare.

Still, she threw herself at it, knowing she couldn’t close the Breach until it was defeated. After striking a few blows, she realized her mace was having little effect on the creature. Remembering that she could do… something to the rift that affected the demons, she focused her attention on it and held out her hand. Sure enough, a few moments later there was an eruption of energy that dropped the pride demon to one knee. With a roar, she charged at it and renewed her assault, joined by Cassandra and the other soldiers.

But the pride demon wasn't the only one who came through. Waves of shades appeared as well, forcing Hope to deal with them before returning to the greater foe. Twice more she pulled that strange energy from the rift, twice more breaking through the pride demon’s defenses and then rushing towards it, landing blow after blow with her scavenged weapon.

At last the creature fell, and she raised her hand to close the Breach.

Hope could feel that same pull of energy as the other rifts, but where before she would reach a point where she could clench her fist and draw it closed, now the tug-of-war seemed to be against something far more massive and unyielding. It was as if she were trying to tear down the sky itself, and the longer she held on, the more the magic inside her slipped and slid, burning her palm as it did. She’d been gravely wounded once in a fight with a blood mage, and this was like that, like her very essence was being drawn out of her, leaving her cold and hollow.

The energy tore away from her as if it had been cut loose, and then--

#

Cullen held his razor with a trembling hand and glared at his reflection in the small mirror propped on the table in his tent. Each time he moved the blade toward his face, the trembling increased until he moved it away again. He'd been at it since before dawn, by the thin light of a candle, which he'd blown out in disgust some time ago. He'd gone for his morning jog and come back, but that hadn't helped either, and neither had his time with one of the beleaguered practice dummies Cassandra had already broken in.

Giving up would be so simple, so reasonable. It was late. He had more important things to do. He was hungry. He'd worn a beard since he was able to grow one, and Haven was cold. No one would question it. No one would care.

Except him. Because if he gave up on this, it was only a matter of time before he gave up on more important things.

“Commander?” a voice called from outside. “Shall I assemble the troops for morning drills?”

“Yes, Knight-Captain,” Cullen replied. “I’ll be out shortly.”

Fine, shake all you want, he told himself. What’s one more scar?

Once he finally began, he nicked his neck, and another spot on his chin, but he finished quickly enough. He rubbed an elfroot leaf on the cuts and cleaned his razor before sliding it back into its case, then went outside to join his soldiers.

Still a bit odd to think of them as “his.” The small force he and Cassandra had brought from Kirkwall had grown since the explosion and subsequent stabilization of the Breach. While a few personal retinues had opted to return to wherever they'd come from, many guards had instead stayed behind to help fight the demons. Add to that a few templars who hadn't been at the Temple, and even some mages and Tranquil, and it was practically a small army.

Part of the Divine’s contingency plan, certainly, but they hadn't expected to lose her before implementing it. Then again, it wouldn't have surprised him if she herself had anticipated the possibility. It would be like her, from what he'd heard.

Rylen was already putting the soldiers through their paces, barking orders at them while subtly inspecting their armor and weapons. One hand on his own sword--which helped hide some of the trembling--Cullen stalked the practice field, correcting a stance here and a grip there, angling shields properly and admonishing the raw recruits to actually use them. More than once, he sent someone jogging to the nearby frozen lake and back for losing focus or failing to follow instructions.

A messenger raced up to him a bit before noon, all breathless and wide-eyed. “Ser, she's awake!”

“What, the Herald?” Cullen asked, almost cringing at himself for using the title. It's what most of the people of Haven had taken to calling her, though, so insisting on calling her Lady Trevelyan was a losing battle.

“Yes, ser!” the messenger said, racing back toward the gates of Haven as if her ass were on fire.

The sounds of sparring around him had stopped. Cullen sighed and turned to his troops, who were gazing at him with mixed expressions of curiosity and awe.

“Go on, then,” he said, knowing there’d be no dealing with them now. “But at least stand at attention, and keep people at a respectful distance.”

The recruits scrambled to sheathe their swords and run toward the home where the injured woman had been recuperating for the past three days. Honor guards had been stationed outside the whole time to make sure no one intruded, but one couldn’t be too careful.

“Not going to have a look for yourself?” Rylen asked, ambling up next to Cullen.

“What for?” Cullen replied. “We already met briefly on the field, and I’m certain I’ll be summoned for more formal introductions soon enough.”

“Plenty of time to bow to puffed-up nobs later,” Rylen agreed amiably. “Thornton said she pulled her weight against that pride demon, at least.”

“And against the rest before, according to Lady Cassandra.” He remembered hearing her shout as she came up behind him, guarding his back, then fighting at his side as if she’d been doing it for years. He’d assumed she was just another soldier until Cassandra had said she was the prisoner. And wearing a templar helm, no less, though she didn’t have a whiff of lyrium about her. She fought a bit like one, though--

“Cullen?” Rylen asked.

“Hmm?”

“I said, did she seem alright to you? Or was she all Chant of Light and holy knickers?”

“She was--” Short, dark hair plastered to her head with sweat, tan skin flushed from cold and exertion, jagged scar on her cheek. Brown eyes regarding him with something like surprise. His old title slipping out easily, though he didn't recognize her in the slightest. Offering him her helm without a thought, as if he needed it more than she did. “She was polite,” he said finally.

Rylen snorted. “That’s damning with faint praise. Herald of Andraste, savior of Haven, killer of demons, closer of Fade rifts. And on your word, the bards will call her well-mannered.”

Cullen allowed himself a smirk. “Well, as divine symbols go, I’m happy to have one who uses her shield for more than decoration. As for the rest, we’ll see what happens.”

#

As he had expected, Cullen soon received a summons to report to the Chantry, passing a fuming Chancellor Roderick on his way. When he reached the back room, instead of the Herald, he was faced with Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine, whom he’d only met briefly when she arrived a week earlier. 

Cassandra leaned against the large wooden table they used for meetings, staring down at the Inquisition tome the Divine had given them before ascending to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“It is done,” Leliana said quietly. “We have played our hand. Now we wait for the Chantry to play theirs.”

Josephine straightened in her chair and smiled, but it was an expression born of practice rather than actual humor. “With more time, we might have stacked the deck in our favor, as it were. However, I am confident we can proceed with the resources currently at our disposal.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, but said nothing.

Cullen cleared his throat. “And what of the Herald--that is, Lady Trevelyan?”

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “She has agreed to aid our cause, and as she appears to be the only one capable of closing the rifts, her support is a great boon to our legitimacy.”

Now Cassandra did speak. “I do not like this notion that she is a tool to be used. I believe she is a good woman, perhaps truly sent to us by the Maker in our hour of need.”

Are we not all tools of the Maker? Cullen thought, but held his tongue. He was hardly one to lecture a Seeker, much less the Right Hand of the Divine. And he knew well enough what it was to be used as a tool by mere humans, whose motives were far more prone to error and maliciousness.

“We must apply the right tool to the right task, must we not, Cassandra?” Leliana peered down at the Seeker, who snarled in response.

The Left and Right Hands, Cullen thought. What might they have accomplished with Divine Justinia still alive to guide them? And what could some Marcher noble do that would hold a candle to that?

“I have penned missives to the leaders of the warring factions,” Josephine said, interrupting his musing. “We shall see what they have to say, and proceed accordingly.”

“And the rifts?” Cullen asked. “Should we begin sending her out with our troops to take care of those?”

“My scouts are already in the Hinterlands, sending me reports of activity there,” Leliana said. “But we can discuss that with the Herald herself. Meanwhile...” She held out her hand to Josephine, who passed her two wax-sealed letters on impressively creamy paper, then stood.

“I will prepare a more elaborate version to affix to the Chantry door, for all to admire,” the ambassador said. She turned to Cullen with a slightly more mirthful smile. “Commander, speaking of proper tools: how proficient are you with a hammer?”

#

As the Inquisition banner was unfurled from the Chantry roof in front of the assembled crowd of Haven’s present occupants, Hope stood stiffly next to Knight-Captain--no, Commander Cullen.

Blood and ashes, Trevelyan, get it right or you’ll embarrass yourself, she thought. He might have an unqualified history of being an ass, but he’d given her no cause to be disrespectful, and that he was part of the Inquisition leadership said something. She wasn’t sure what, yet, but something.

She’d all but practiced repeating his title out loud, and still she couldn’t shake the old habit. She wondered whether Varric had the same problem, then decided the dwarf probably had a disparaging nickname for the man--had it been in his book?--and resolved to ask him about it. Among other things.

Her thoughts drifted back to Kirkwall. To maintain her ruse about being a templar, Hope had kept up with what they were doing, more or less. So she knew something of what had gone on in the Gallows, and with the knight-captain, whatever Varric’s book said about ignorance and noble last-minute changes of heart. She’d even seen the statue of the former knight-commander once; made her feel creepy for days after, like she’d had a spider crawl up her back and couldn’t shake the phantom sensation of its touch. And of course, there was the templar who’d sold her out to her family, the bloody nug-humper, and that was a path down which she had no time to tread at the moment. 

Ambassador Montilyet, who she had yet to meet, made a brief, eloquent speech, then it was Hope’s turn to say a few words--also carefully composed by the ambassador, according to Cassandra, who had delivered the missive along with a ceremonial suit of armor. She could almost hear her mother whispering: head up, shoulders back, project without shouting, and would it kill you to smile?

Apparently so, because Hope could do little better than deliver her own speech without grimacing. The crowd didn’t seem particularly impressed, either, dispersing quickly after she finished.

A pair of amber eyes met hers, and a sympathetic half-smile. “We’re convening at the war table now, Herald, to discuss our next steps.”

“Of course, Knight-Captain,” Hope replied, wincing as the smile evaporated like morning fog. “Commander, I should say. Commander.”

Maker’s breath. She stalked into the Chantry ahead of him, her face burning. She had to practice it now. Her mother’s voice chimed in again: think before you speak, darling, even if you must count to ten silently. Another thought joined that one: she'd have to write to her family soon, to tell them what had happened.

She did not relish that task in the slightest.

Cassandra caught up with her and asked about the mark. The pain had receded, certainly, though it hadn’t vanished entirely. Where before it was biting ants and lightning pulses, now it was more of a dull ache, like a wound beginning to heal. Only instead of healing, it… didn't. At least it wasn’t killing her anymore, though she wasn’t keen on the plan Cassandra mentioned about putting more power into it.

While they stopped to talk, the commander passed her, hand on his sword. Hope sighed. Maybe she wouldn't have to deal with him much. They might post her with his troops, though, given her background. That would be just her luck.

They continued into the room, where Hope was formally introduced to the leaders of the Inquisition. Commander Cullen was civil, Ambassador Montilyet was warm but professional--and slightly familiar, Hope thought--and Sister Leliana attempted to be circumspect about her position when Cassandra interrupted her. Hope turned a snort into a cough; the Seeker’s bluntness was precisely how Bann Trevelyan worried Hope would end up, she suspected, and Hope had to admit she found it preferable to the hidden-bladed charm her mother favored.

The assembled parties almost immediately devolved into squabbling about whether the rebel mages or templars should be approached for aid in sealing the Breach. Hope wasn’t surprised that the commander favored reaching out to the templars, but the way he worded it gave her pause.

“I was a templar,” he said. Meaning he wasn’t any longer? That was ominous. She hadn’t heard anything about him being dismissed, though she also hadn’t been keeping up with Kirkwall news beyond traditional dinner party gossip, and whatever might impact Ostwick directly. Had he resigned? Before or after he came here? Hope was beginning to suspect this Inquisition business had not sprung up overnight as a result of the destruction of the conclave; she would have to ask Cassandra about it later.

Meanwhile, the ambassador was tempering the argument with an unpleasant shock: the Chantry had openly denounced Hope because of the title bestowed on her by, well, someone she’d like to shake vigorously, if she could ever find them. Being called a heretic was no laughing matter; her parents would be incensed, her family would be disgraced… Not to mention that she’d never been keen on attention, for all that her mother attempted to prepare her for it before her dedication to the templars, and then again before the conclave. Hope had taken “modest in temper, bold in deed” to mean that actions spoke louder than words, and she sought to be judged accordingly. She’d never imagined becoming some kind of figurehead or symbol, like the Champion, especially when she hadn’t even done anything but be dropped into the middle of a strange, deadly mystery. She hadn’t even managed to seal the blighted Breach.

Now the commander wanted to know how she felt about the whole Herald business. She couldn’t tell whether he sounded amused or disdainful--probably the latter. The stern way he looked at her as she weighed her words made her want to fidget, as if he was expecting her to lie, or posture.

Instead, she was honest: it unnerved her. Herald of Andraste, indeed. She wished she felt divinely empowered. Mostly she was bloody tired. He seemed to find her response satisfactory, given his chuckle and comment on the Chantry agreeing with her.

Still, the worry nagged at her that the Chantry might do something, perhaps even attack. When she voiced the concern, his dismissal was immediate and bitter, though once again Josephine spoke up, to insist that they not underestimate the power of words.

At last they came to what they wanted Hope to do: talk to a Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands, east of Haven, to see if she could assist them with overcoming the Chantry’s animosity. Hope agreed immediately, eager to do something, anything but sit in her room with only her thoughts for companions. Perhaps if the Chantry saw that she wasn’t putting on airs, acting like a prophet... 

But Commander Cullen and Ambassador Montilyet also wanted her to expand the Inquisition’s influence, even recruit people to their cause. Hope swallowed protests that she wasn’t the right person for the task, feeling her mother’s scorn like the sun’s heat against her neck. She was a trained diplomat, more or less, had in fact been operating in that very capacity before the explosion--with a lot of help from Sanders, may he be seated at the Maker’s side. And they were leveraging her as a symbol, of course, which was canny, if discomfiting. 

Her mother's words came to her again: accept power when it's given. The mark on her hand pulsed, and she hid it behind her back, folding her fingers into a fist. 

If that was to be her role, so be it. She would perform it to the best of her ability, so long as they did not require of her anything morally objectionable.

All that was left was to make preparations for the journey, using whatever information Sister Leliana’s scouts were able to provide. The spymaster expected a response by morning, if not sooner, and then they could depart. Cassandra announced that she needed to pack, and Hope looked up at her in surprise.

“You're coming with me?” Hope asked.

“I am,” the Seeker replied testily. “Is there a problem?”

Maker’s breath, she’d offended the woman already. That was two of four, now. “No problem at all,” Hope said quickly. “I simply expected you had more important things to do here.”

Leliana smiled. “Cassandra is rather more accustomed to, shall we say, fieldwork than paperwork.”

“That makes two of us,” Hope murmured. “Perhaps I should bring Serah Tethras as well; I suspect he has a better way with words than either of us.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, but didn't argue.

Hope began to pace in front of the huge table, staring at the map of Orlais and Fereldan that occupied its entire surface. “Solas may also be useful, with his knowledge of the rifts and the Fade itself. We’ve all fought together already, and a small team will move more quickly than a larger force--and attract less attention until we have a better sense of the situation there. We can approach Mother Giselle, close any rifts in the area, perhaps even seek out likely staging grounds to facilitate movement of--”

She realized she’d been thinking out loud and stopped, coughing into her closed fist. “My apologies,” she said, feeling their eyes on her. “I should speak to Solas and Varric, or assist Lady Cassandra, or pack my own…” Except she didn’t have anything to pack, did she? It had all been destroyed with the Temple. Her armor, her sword and shield, her books, Sanders and Howell, and what the flames had happened to Ser Earnest and Ser Gertrude--

The enormity of her loss crashed over her like a wave. She’d been too busy fighting to think about it at first, then she’d been too busy being unconscious. And now she was trying to bury herself in work, just as she had done in Kirkwall, then in Ostwick, trying to hold together the threads of her own life while the world around her unraveled. She put her hands on the edge of the table to steady herself, the mark sputtering once like a green twig in a fire.

Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face--her mother would scold her, put your heart back in your chest, Hope, Maker’s breath--because Sister Leliana approached and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

“We have packs and rations available, and Harritt, our blacksmith, can help you with armor and weapons,” the spymaster said. “The apothecary, Adan, can supply you with any potions you require.”

Hope found she couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat, so she merely nodded. She fought the urge to salute; she hadn’t saluted anyone in four years, for pity’s sake, and she was a bann’s daughter. After a polite bow, Hope turned and forced herself to walk briskly, calmly, back to the house where she’d been staying, past Chantry sisters and soldiers and scouts, head held high like a proper Herald of Andraste.

Once out of sight, she stuffed her face in her pillow and wept quietly until her mind was as empty as a blank page.

#

Cullen watched the Herald leave the room, torn between pity, concern and lingering dismay. He was no stranger to tragedy himself, and the explosion at the temple had shaken them all. The woman had held herself together so far, but she was a noble, and might be made of less stern stuff than they required. He had been too busy dealing with the swelling ranks of their recruits to do more than worry about her in an abstract sense, because if she hadn’t survived, they would have had no idea how to close the rifts scattered across Ferelden and Orlais. But now that she was actively involved in the Inquisition--

“Leliana,” he said, as the others moved to leave as well. “A word, if I may.”

The spymaster raised an eyebrow. “Commander? How may I assist you?”

“I’m sure you’ve briefed Josephine and Cassandra on the Herald’s background, but do you have a moment to fill me in as well?”

“Of course. I believe I sent you a dossier just after the Breach was stabilized, but I have had other reports since then which paint a fuller picture.” She crossed her arms, studying him without expression. “Was there anything in particular you wished to know?”

Why does she keep calling me “Knight-Captain”? he thought, stifling a pang of guilt.

“She seems a rather proficient fighter,” he said instead. “Where did she train?”

Her lips curled slightly. “Ah, there is a story in that. Perhaps you would prefer to hear it from her directly?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Why? Does she tell it well?”

“I wouldn’t know. I have pieced it together from a few separate accounts, and had intended to ask for her version when we had a moment in private. It is something of a family scandal.”

“That sounds ominous. Should we be worried about it impacting our reputation?”

Leliana laughed, soft and low. “I suspect it will not endear her to the Chantry, or the templars. Or you, in fact.”

“Me? Whyever would it--”

She told him. About the training, which roused his empathy, because he’d joined the templars late himself and knew what it was to always be catching up to younger recruits. But then the failure to undergo her vigil, and the transfer, the years of lies--Maker’s breath, but Kirkwall should have been called the City of Lies, for the deceit was as pervasive and twisting as the streets of the city itself.

And after all that, while the rest of them struggled to put the pieces of the city back together, she went home to her precious, privileged life as a bann’s daughter.

“So she spent the last four years dancing and eating tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off?” he asked rhetorically, snorting to himself. “Typical.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow, a small smile touching her lips. “I suspect it was not so simple, Commander, or you would not have opened this line of questioning with a compliment on her skills. Few people have been insulated from the strife of the war, as you well know.” 

“I suppose.” He gripped the pommel of his sword, memories of Kirkwall rolling up to the edges of his thoughts like a tide coming in. She would have been under his command, but she’d chosen Aveline instead, why had she…? 

No, he thought, don’t lie to yourself, you know why. All the things you did, or didn’t do, all the could haves and should haves--

“Consider one thing, if you would, Commander.”

“Yes?”

“We have a potentially valuable ally on our hands in the Lady Trevelyan, as she already possesses various skills and knowledge due to her upbringing and experience. We need her mark to close the rifts across Thedas, but what she chooses to do as she travels may have an impact well beyond that task. It falls to us to help guide her, nurture her as best we can.”

“Groom her, you mean.” He remembered what Cassandra had said about tools, and found himself leaning in her favor suddenly.

“I would say, ensure she is an agent worthy of our cause. Her history suggests she is more comfortable following than leading, though she is not without a certain rebelliousness. We will not be able to control her when she is in the field, and we cannot simply dismiss her if she performs poorly, as if she were a mere soldier.”

“And we cannot compel her to help us in chains, I suspect.”

“Indeed. We must therefore earn her trust, even as she works to earn ours.” Leliana glided toward the door, hands clasped behind her back. She paused at the threshold and turned to face him. “She has been through a great deal in a short time. I could counsel the Herald as a companion of the Hero of Ferelden and survivor of the Blight. Josephine has moved in some of the same circles she has, and they no doubt share a few acquaintances. Cassandra is a warrior, like her, from a noble family, and I think they are not entirely dissimilar in temperament.” She pinned him with that calculating look again. “However, none of us spent years in Kirkwall, as you did. And none of us were there when the Chantry was destroyed, as you were. Moreover, none of us is currently enduring a, shall we say, ongoing and unpleasant affliction as she is. I suspect that if anyone can assist her in this transition, it may well be you.”

His grip tightened as he searched her face for some hint of motive, and found none.

“I will, as you say, consider that,” he told her. Leliana left Cullen to his thoughts, clouded as they were. 

He hadn’t wanted to contradict her, but he suspected the Herald might not be as sympathetic to their shared history as the spymaster thought. He had been Meredith’s second-in-command, and much of the fault for the situation in Kirkwall rested with him, for all that he’d been shielded from most of the templar abuses both by her deceptions and his own obliviousness. Ignorance was no excuse. He should have known. He should have done something.

A small part of him asked, not for the first time: would you really have done anything if you'd known? After what happened in Ferelden, wouldn't you have been more than happy to assist?

No, he answered, as he always did. Because if that were true, Meredith wouldn't have hidden anything from me to begin with. And the things I did do were more than bad enough.

He remembered when he first started meeting with Guard-Captain Aveline at the Keep, to coordinate relief and rebuilding efforts. Walking up the stairs, into the barracks, eyes on him the whole time--looks of disgust, loathing, fear, pity. Had the Herald been among them? Which look had her eyes held?

Maker’s breath, he could feel a headache coming on. Did Leliana really think his withdrawal was similar to her mark? He certainly hoped not. He wouldn’t wish the pain, the nausea, the blighted trembling on his worst enemy.

It had been a long and busy day, and he had letters to read and write before he could wrestle with insomnia yet again. With one final glance at the map on the table, he left, making for his tent and the piles of papers he knew awaited him there. The problem of the Herald would have to be dealt with some other time.

At least now he knew why she kept calling him Knight-Captain, for all the good it did him.

#

Once she'd recovered, more or less--there was so much to do, and little time for proper grief--Hope washed her face with icy water and set to acquainting herself with Haven and the members of the Inquisition.

She spoke to the quartermaster, and the apothecary, then to Solas and Varric, who both agreed to continue with her to the Hinterlands. She also stopped at the tavern, but she didn't stay long. Once everyone realized who she was, not even the lovely bard’s singing could keep people from staring openly at her.

Finally, she made her way out through the large double doors of the town, where the wind slid across the icy lake, sharp as a blade. The soldiers were engaged in training drills very like the ones she remembered from her time with the templars, and she was sorely tempted to join them. After days of rest, she was still weaker than she might have liked; still, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone so long without swinging a sword, and it stung like a burr in her boot. That’s what she should be doing, not running around talking to people.

But if she were a soldier, she’d have to report to the commander. So perhaps all was as it should be.

She noticed Cassandra taking out her aggressions on a practice dummy and cracked a joke about it, hoping to set the Seeker at ease. To her surprise, the woman was more worried than angry. Worried that she'd made the wrong choice, acted too hastily, in calling for the Inquisition.

Did Hope believe in the Inquisition’s stated goals? Without a doubt. And Cassandra certainly thought they were doing the will of the late Divine, or there wouldn’t be a proclamation on the Chantry door saying as much. She did what she could to assuage the woman’s fears, then excused herself, not wanting to overstay her welcome. They could talk more as they traveled.

Wherever the commander was, he wasn't with his troops. Perhaps back at the war table, or meeting with someone elsewhere? Hope watched the soldiers spar for a few minutes, until finally she couldn't restrain herself. She hadn't spent four years helping Ostwick’s knights train border patrols to stand idly by and watch fresh recruits tap each other like they held fans instead of swords.

“You there,” she shouted, pointing at one of them, who nearly dropped his weapon in shock. “You've a shield in your hand, use it!”

Someone snorted a laugh behind her and she crossed her arms, turning around slowly, deliberately, to berate whoever it was. Instead of a fresh recruit, she saw an armored man with a grin on his face who, at the sight of her stern expression, stood at attention and saluted.

“Herald, ser,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Knight-Captain Rylen, ser.”

She uncrossed her arms, her right hand going for a sword that wasn’t there. She realized it too late and grimaced, instead linking her hands behind her back, the mark on her left one crackling.

“Are these your charges, Knight-Captain?” Hope asked.

“Yes, ser, for my sins.”

He was also a former templar, with that title, and likely an associate of Commander Cullen’s if he was tasked with training. She almost let her demeanor shift--she'd overstepped, surely--but he was treating her as a superior. Accept power, Hope, she told herself. Still, she needn't be uncouth.

“My apologies for interfering,” she said. “I should have sought you out rather than barking orders at your company.” She wanted to ask what was so funny, but she doubted he would be forthcoming.

“Not at all, ser. Does them good to hear it from another mouth for a change.”

“Carry on, then, Knight-Captain.” She struck off down the path that led around the shore of the lake, putting the Breach behind her so she wouldn’t have to look at it--as if she didn’t have a constant pulsing reminder of it embedded in her own body.

She passed tall pine trees that had escaped the fires further up the mountain, and even found some elfroot poking up from the snow. Gathering it out of habit, she carefully wrapped it in a cloth and resolved to see whether Adan might make use of it. Speaking of the apothecary, she found an apparently abandoned house and poked around inside, realizing it contained some notes he had mentioned earlier. Those went inside her small pack with the elfroot. She should have brought the larger pack Sister Leliana had sent to her room, but she hadn’t thought she would need it. She hadn’t thought much through at all, if she were honest with herself.

Hope had always thought better when she was walking, moving, anything but being still. As a child, she struggled to stay seated when her tutor was giving her lessons on history or mathematics or etiquette or whatever else her parents decided she had to learn that day. She’d never been a hand at painting because of it, or embroidery, or music. Dancing was fine, of course; it was just fighting without weapons or intent to harm. But she could track, and ride, and walk the length and breadth of the bannorn until she knew every inch by heart.

It’s why I took to being a guard so well, she thought. Walking around for hours on end, through winding streets, never stuck in one spot for long. It’s why I was a terrible templar, and why I never would have passed the vigil. And why Mother always despaired of me making myself useful to the family. What would she think of me now?

She passed the house and wandered through a wooden gate into the foothills, the snow crunching beneath her boots but strong enough to support her weight without sinking. It rarely snowed in Ostwick, and when it did the sun often made short work of it over the course of the day. There was beauty in so much crisp whiteness, the dazzling way the light touched it just right and set it to sparkling like gems. 

It was a beauty tempered by the chill that knifed its way under her armor, though. She needed a proper gambeson, or perhaps a surcoat. The Hinterlands promised to be a bit warmer, at least, since they weren’t as high up in the mountains.

That thought sent her back toward Haven to finish her preparations for the journey, as they’d likely embark in the morning. She took one last look up at the Breach, swirling in the sky like a bad summer storm in the Amaranthine Ocean, and tried not to feel as if her own name were a cruel joke by the Maker at her expense. For at the moment, while she had stubbornness, and determination, she had to confess that she had very little hope to spare.

#

Cullen looked up from another half-written letter as Rylen stepped into his tent, carrying a plate of food and a mug of ale. He sighed, leaning away from the table that served as his makeshift desk.

“Thank you,” he said, though his headache was so sharp it made his stomach churn. “I take it that means it's almost sundown?”

“Aye, and you need to eat.”

Theoretically true, though Cullen suspected it might not stay down for long. But there was no cause to trouble Rylen with that. He took the plate and balanced it on one knee, popping a redcurrant into his mouth. Firm, tart but sweet. He remembered eating them warm right from their bushes, wandering through the hills of Honnleath with his siblings. Maker, that was what, twenty years ago?

“The Herald came by earlier,” Rylen said.

“I thought I heard her. What did she want?” He ignored his roiling stomach and ate another berry.

“Didn’t say anything. Was she trained by a templar, do you know?”

“She was. Why?”

“Got a familiar way of putting things, she does, and the voice to match. Gave me the look, too, like I haven't seen in years.”

“The look?”

“Yes, the look. You know, the one that says you've put your foot in it, no mistake, and all you can do is hope for a jog instead of latrine duty.” Rylen regarded him quizzically. “You've given it to enough recruits yourself. I know I have.”

“I suppose I hadn't given it much thought.” He knew what the man meant, though, having been on the receiving end enough times. The last he could remember had been Guard-Captain Aveline, when he'd first approached her about working together to rebuild. That woman could put the fear of the Maker into anyone with a pulse.

Rylen made a soft noise, thoughtful. “Should we ask her to help with training?” 

“No,” Cullen said, more emphatically than the question warranted. “No, I think not. She’s unlikely to have any time for it, as sealing rifts will involve a great deal of travel.”

“Fair point.” Rylen scratched his chin. “Still, some kind of combat demonstration might be good for morale. Show the soldiers their Herald knows the right end of a sword.”

“I'll… suggest it to her later.” Perhaps ask Cassandra first, after they returned from the Hinterlands. Why did the idea bother him so much?

“I'm off to the tavern, then,” Rylen said. He gestured at the plate. “You eat that, hear? Won't stay fighting weight on air and elfroot.”

“Yes, ser,” Cullen replied cheekily. Rylen offered a sarcastic salute and left, the tent flap sliding back into place with a thwap.

As ordered, he focused on putting one bite of food into his mouth after another and chewing grimly, methodically, while telling himself in no uncertain terms that he was to keep. It. Down. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stifled a laugh. 

There was the look Rylen was talking about. Well, perhaps it would work on him, too.

He found it hard to imagine the Herald giving anyone such a look. So far, he’d seen her surprised, or bemused, or pensive. The speech she'd given could barely flutter an eyelash, much less rouse an army. But if Rylen said she could do it, far be it from him to argue. And she had sounded sufficiently aggressive on the battlefield.

Maker guide us, Cullen thought. May she not be a bloody fool, and if we must work together, may we at least not be enemies.


	3. Allemande

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope and her companions make headway in the Hinterlands, fail to impress in Val Royeaux, and acquire two additional party members along the way. Cullen starts to get over himself with some help from Rylen, and finds some common ground with the Herald at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knight to f3. Knight to c6.

Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs,  
The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds.  
\--Chant of Light

 

Hope was beginning to suspect that the list of places not on fire at any given time was shorter than the list of places that were.

After a long march with draft horses barely fit to pull a cart, Hope, her companions and a small group of soldiers--who escorted them at Commander Cullen’s insistence--reached the Crossroads. It was, as predicted, warmer than Haven, the air carrying with it the smell of early spring blooms and fresh green leaves, along with a generous overtone of smoke and rotting flesh.

The villagers cowered in their homes as templars and mages tore each other apart with sword and flame. Despite entreaties from Cassandra and Solas, the two sets of foes would not cease, and the Inquisition members had to stop them by force.

It only got worse from there.

Madame Giselle was kind, sharp as a sheathed dagger, and agreed to travel back with them to Haven once the situation was more stable. For Hope, that meant not only clearing out the two factions doing all the fire-setting, but also ensuring the residents of the area weren’t going to freeze or starve to death once the immediate danger had passed.

Add to that a cult occupying a keep in the mountains, bandits on the eastern road, and of course a plethora of rifts scattered all over the countryside, and Hope crawled into her tent every night trying to remember what it felt like not to ache all over.

It didn't help that Cassandra stayed up late going over messages from Haven and writing her own reports on their progress. Hope felt guilty for falling asleep first, however tired she might be, and the flickering light of the candle reminded her of long nights in templar training, reciting the Chant of Light, trying to learn stillness and mental fortitude--in other words, how to stay awake sitting up in a dark room so the captain wouldn't slap your shoulder with a practice sword. 

One night, as they camped near Lady Shayna’s Valley after a run-in with an actual bloody high dragon--or “run-out” as Varric had called it, brushing sparks off his leather duster--Hope finally couldn't take it any longer.

“Is there anything I can do to help you get to bed faster?” Hope pleaded.

“You may help me write these reports,” Cassandra replied. “The sooner I am finished, the sooner I may sleep.”

Hope groaned. “Maker’s breath, I hate writing.”

“As do I. And Leliana compels me to translate everything into her cipher, in case our ravens are intercepted.”

Much as she wanted to throw an arm over her face and try to ignore the light and noise, Hope knew Cassandra was likely as worn out as she was. She crawled out of her sleeping roll and stifled a yawn.

“Perhaps you could teach me the cipher, and I can transcribe while you write?” Hope asked.

A pained expression flashed across Cassandra’s face. “I… that would make this faster.” And yet she didn’t move.

Hope searched the Seeker’s downcast eyes, trying to figure out what was wrong. As usual, it came to her eventually.

“You're writing about me,” Hope murmured.

“Yes.” Cassandra sighed and laid down her quill. “I do not wish you to think I am being secretive. I was merely considering whether it would be appropriate to--”

“I understand. You don't want to feel as if you must censor yourself for my benefit.” The back of her neck burned thinking about it, though. Of course the others would want to hear about what Hope was doing, and how, and whether she was making a great fool of herself and the Inquisition by association. Still, she couldn't imagine Cassandra keeping criticism quiet, and that was a little heartening.

Cassandra took up her quill again, rubbing the feather absently against the long scar on her cheek. “I do trust you, Lady Trevelyan. Perhaps in time, there will be nothing I write that I would not tell you myself.”

Hope ran both hands through her hair, mussing it and then smoothing it back. She hadn’t even written to her family yet, in all this time. Maker knew what they must think of her. Why had she never gotten the knack of letters the way Justin and Grace had? Even Prudence had written to her every year on her birthday, if nothing else.

It’s not letters, Hope, it’s reports, she told herself. You can do reports. You had to do them every day in Kirkwall. When you didn’t bribe someone else to do them, anyway.

“All right,” she said. “What can I write for you? You’ll have to put it in the cipher yourself, so you can make changes as you see fit before sending anything.”

Cassandra stared at her briefly before nodding and reaching for another quill and paper. “Cullen requested that I provide him with as much information as I could about the training levels of our enemies. Do you feel you could make such an assessment?”

“The templars and sellswords more than the mages, I think,” Hope replied, taking the proffered materials. “Would he also like to hear about the demons? He’s familiar enough with fighting them.”

“I suppose he is, but it cannot hurt to relay anything of note.” The Seeker paused long enough for Hope to begin composing the report in her head, before asking, “Did you know him? In Kirkwall?”

“I knew of him. Saw him a few times at the Gallows.” Hand at his sword, shield at his back, flaming sword on his chest like the rest. All the templars had looked either cocky or nervous, except him. He’d been carved of bloody stone until the end. 

She remembered him walking into the common room at the keep early one morning, a week or so after the explosion. She’d stood by warily, worried he was there to harass the guard-captain about her friendship with the Champion. At the time, the guards knew little beyond that Knight-Commander Meredith was dead by Hawke’s hand, and that their own captain had fought with her against the templars to defend the mages from the Right of Annulment.

Maker’s balls, Hope had been glad to dodge that trebuchet. If she’d been with the templars--

Cassandra interrupted her reverie. “What do you think of him?”

“Who, the commander?” She hesitated, practically hearing her mother scream in her ear to think carefully before speaking. “I suspect Varric could tell you more than I could.”

“I am not asking for information. I want to know your opinion.”

Again, Hope paused. If someone had asked her that question back in Ostwick, she might have demurred, or in safe company, said that she thought anyone who allowed what he did under his command should be strung up by their smalls. Friends of hers had died to blood mages and abominations, many of whom were themselves driven to desperation by the abuses the templars visited on them. More friends had perished in the Chantry explosion, and in the aftermath. As far as she was concerned, part of the blame for that loss rested on the former knight-captain’s great furry shoulders.

But the guard-captain hadn't turned him away all those years ago, by all accounts he'd helped restore some small measure of stability to Kirkwall, and now here he was, in charge of the Inquisition’s forces. That suggested Cassandra and Leliana thought well of him, and perhaps even the Divine herself. So either the Inquisition was as corrupt as the Gallows had been, or the commander was more innocent than Hope believed, or he was being given a chance to atone for his immensely bloody mistakes. Or a bit of all three.

“I cannot say I know him well enough to have an opinion,” Hope said finally. And I'm not sure I want to, she did not add aloud.

Cassandra’s lip curled on one side. “A very diplomatic answer.”

“All right, I'll say what we’re both thinking: his lion helm is dreadful.” Hope was pleased to see the curled lip turn into a true smile.

“I believe Leliana commissioned that for him as dress armor. To strike fear into the hearts of our enemies, I imagine.”

Hope grinned. “His face alone does that well enough.”

That elicited a chuckle from the Seeker. “That may be the first complaint I've heard about his appearance since we reached Haven. You should hear the ridiculous swooning from some of the people in the tavern.”

“Swooning? Really? With the furry coat and everything?” Hope summoned up a mental image of the man and studied it critically. “I suppose he does look better than he did in Kirkwall. He shaved, I think? And he's doing something with his hair?” She didn't mention the scar on his lip, her fingertips brushing her own instead as the memory of her fight with that shade surfaced like a bad apple in a tub.

“I believe his hair is also Leliana’s doing. Some type of Orlesian beeswax, as I recall.”

Hope tried to imagine the stern commander standing in front of a mirror, fussing over his precious golden curls. She snorted in amusement. “It could be worse. Growing up, I heard Fereldans used mabari spit for pomade.”

“I heard much the same.” Cassandra sighed, her faint smile disappearing. “Listen to us, gossiping like old men. We should return our attention to the task at hand.”

Hope’s hand crackled as if in response. “Indeed,” she said, though she had to admit the conversation was a welcome respite from the deadly serious business they’d been dealing with for days. 

Soon the only sound in the tent was the scratching of quills, and the occasional yawn. If her thoughts strayed once or twice to considering the commander, picturing his form as they fought together in the ruins of the temple, she told herself it was only because she was writing to him, and trying to decide what he would find most useful for training purposes.

Swooning. Some people.

#

Their work in the Hinterlands--especially bringing down the rogue mages and templars, and sealing so many rifts--soon gave the Inquisition the leverage they needed to send a representative to Val Royeaux to meet with the Chantry clerics, and Hope and Cassandra were summoned back to Haven to discuss the matter. They moved more quickly with no soldiers in tow, having left them behind to maintain a presence in the area, and they reached Haven on a clear day just after noon. Without stopping to clean up or rest, they immediately made for the war table.

As it turned out, Josephine thought the representative who should go to Val Royeaux should be Hope. Both Cullen and Leliana recoiled at the idea, and Hope had a bad feeling she would be walking into an ambush, despite how much the Inquisition had helped already. She didn't think it would do any good, frankly, and to her surprise Cullen agreed.

She didn't know why it surprised her, when she thought about it. She hadn’t been at the whole Heralding business for long, and he hadn't exactly expressed any faith in Hope’s leadership or diplomatic abilities. Or her report-writing skills.

More arguing ensued, until Cassandra stepped in to insist they call their allies together, few as they were, and make the attempt. If the Seeker thought they should give it a try, who was Hope to disagree? It felt like a vote of confidence, and a surge of pride and gratitude washed over her.

“We’ll depart in the morning,” Hope said. 

“You do not wish to rest for a few days?” Josephine asked.

“The faster we move, the sooner we can seal the Breach.” She hesitated and looked to her left. “Unless Lady Cassandra has any objections?”

“None whatsoever,” the Seeker replied. “We gain nothing by delaying.”

Hope nodded and turned back to the Inquisition leadership. “Is there anything else to discuss, or may we begin our preparations?”

“Josephine has something for you,” Leliana said, gesturing at the ambassador.

“Indeed,” Josephine replied, pulling a paper from the stack on her tablet and laying it on the table so Hope could reach it. “You received a letter from Lord Kildarn of Ferelden, asking for aid with so-called heretics plaguing his lands.”

“You’re reading my letters?” Hope asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Merely a precaution,” Leliana said. “I know of at least thirteen ways to kill someone with paper, and I am sure there are others.”

Hope took the letter gingerly and read it, twice. It was brief, but managed to contain enough arrogance and prejudice for a missive thrice its length. “Filthy savages indeed,” she murmured. “He sounds like a bloody rashvine. What do you recommend?”

Josephine tapped her quill against her tablet. “Lord Kildarn is pariah even among his peers. Let us send a polite refusal and nothing more.”

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “We can take advantage of his raving. My spies can harass the refugees into moving somewhere else, to win Lord Kildarn's favor.”

Hope looked over at Cullen, who frowned. “I have not seen the letter, and am not familiar with the man.”

Without a word, Hope handed him the paper, and he perused it in silence. She watched as his neutral expression turned to a scowl.

“We could send a few patrols, but I would prefer they help the refugees, not this Lord Kildarn.”

Hope nodded immediately. “Please, if you could. I am sorry for the loss of his knights, but I expect he is better equipped to handle his loss than the refugees are theirs. Anything else?” She hoped she hadn’t offended Leliana and Josephine by siding with the commander. She also didn’t want to admit it, but she was starving, and the prospect of a hot meal after days of field rations was enough to make her dizzy with desire.

Commander Cullen cleared his throat. “There is one more thing. I had asked Scout Harding to relay a request for horses from the horse master in the Hinterlands. Did you receive it?” He looked at Cassandra as much as her, she noticed, but the Seeker didn't reply for her.

She'd almost forgotten the horses, really, busy as they were helping the refugees at the Crossroads. “Yes, Commander,” Hope replied. “We weren't able to fulfill that requirement yet, but once we return we’ll make it a priority.”

His expression was as sharp as his tone. “You made the time to visit a fair number of other places, as I understand it.”

Hope could feel her temper rising. “The people at the Crossroads needed help,” she said firmly, staring him right in his narrowed amber eyes. “They were starving and freezing. As much as I would prefer not to walk from here to Val Royeaux, a lack of horses for our soldiers won't kill anyone.”

“The horses would have helped us move supplies more quickly and easily,” he replied. “Without proper supply chains, the refugees will be back to the situation you found them in soon enough. For all that you may have assisted them in the short term, you haven't--”

“They wouldn't have a long term if they died while I was haggling over horseflesh. And moreover, the horses wouldn't have roads to travel on if we hadn't cleared them first.”

They glared at each other across the table, and after a moment Hope realized they were both gripping the hilts of their swords. It was her and Victor arguing all over again, she thought, stifling a sigh.

She released her weapon and linked her hands behind her back, settling into the square-shouldered, straight-backed resting position ingrained in her over years of training. He might take it as an acknowledgement of superior rank, but so be it. She would not disgrace herself by getting into a shouting match with the man.

“Commander,” she said crisply. “You will have your horses. Will that be all?”

Leliana raised a hand as if to forestall any other comments. “I am sure the Herald and Cassandra are weary from their journey. If necessary, we can reconvene later.”

Hope bowed and turned, stiff as a soldier, marching out of the room with her teeth clenched so tightly she knew she'd have a headache later. She should have stayed, should have let the others leave before her or with her, but she didn’t trust herself to maintain her composure for much longer. Besides, they probably wanted to talk about her amongst themselves.

Instead of going to her room, she headed for the practice dummies by the lake. Leliana wasn't wrong about her being tired, but she really, really needed to hit something. Because as frustrated as she was, as much as she believed she had done what she needed to do, she also knew that the commander wasn't wrong.

#

“Well,” Josephine said, making a small note on one of her papers. “That was lively.”

Leliana crossed her arms over her chest. “No more lively than it has been without the Herald, at times.”

“I suppose that is true.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen noticed the ambassador staring at him. He ignored her. If she wanted to discuss his treatment of the woman, let her speak openly instead of making elliptical statements.

Cassandra was less circumspect. “Cullen, she is not one of your soldiers to be chastised for making decisions you disagree with.”

He scowled. “I was not chastising her, Seeker. I was simply noting the flaws in her reasoning in the hopes that her future choices will be more carefully considered.”

“Nonsense. I know a dressing down when I see one. If you wish her to know your logic behind making particular requests, you should share it with her rather than expecting her to follow your orders without question.”

“If she cannot think beyond what's in front of her face at any given moment, perhaps she needs to be on a tighter leash.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, and Leliana hummed thoughtfully. “Cassandra, why did you not advise the Herald to make straight for the horses?”

“You have read my reports,” Cassandra replied. “And hers, once she began assisting me with them. The region was too unstable when we arrived, and the refugees in dire need. I did not question her choices at the time.”

Cullen wasn't going to take that bait. It wasn't the first time he and the Seeker disagreed on something, but she also wasn't the one walking around with dangerous magic on her hand, accruing a reputation for the Inquisition for good or ill. Something she said did snag in his mind, however.

“She’s been writing some of the reports?” he asked.

“Yes. The ones about our enemies, primarily.”

The ones I asked for, he thought. Of course.

Leliana smiled. “I am surprised you had not noticed, Commander. They were not Cassandra’s usual style.”

And he'd mentioned to her just yesterday how they'd been useful in adapting some of his training methods, and how he hoped they'd bring back samples for Minaeve to examine. Maker's breath. This was why he didn't play chess against Leliana.

Josephine made another note and nodded at them. “I must return to my office, if there are no objections. The Marquis DuRellion has requested that I meet with him later regarding our continued occupation of Haven, as he calls it, and I must be sure my defense is prepared.”

“I have a few matters to deal with as well,” Leliana said, her amused expression darkening.

“As do I,” Cullen said. When did he not? There was no end of work, and more recruits had begun to arrive since--since the Herald had left Haven, yes, he should be honest about it. They were still a small organization, and not well-loved by any of the factions who had been tearing the countryside apart, but people were beginning to see them as a light in the darkness, and Lady Trevelyan deserved some credit for that.

That led him down a now-familiar pathway of thought: What would they do after the Breach was sealed? The original Inquisition had become the Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth, but those groups still existed, for better or worse. Would his soldiers want to become templars? He didn’t think so. Would they return to their homes, lay down their arms and wait for the political strife to cease? Or would the Inquisition work to end the war entirely, rather than merely resolving the immediate threat?

That was certainly what he was planning for, whether it came to pass or not. The Herald might be content to run around closing rifts and feeding refugees, making a name for herself as some Maker-touched savior; but if the situation between the mages and templars wasn’t resolved, those same refugees would have no homes to return to, Breach or no Breach. There was so much they could do, given time and resources. And better bloody horses.

And what will you do when it’s all over? he asked himself. You’re certainly not going back to the templars either. Will you return to Kirkwall? Move in with Mia and her family in South Reach? Go to Honnleath and try to farm? Follow the Seeker, or Leliana, or Josephine to whatever comes next? At least Lady Trevelyan could return to the bannorn, to her family and whatever fripperies that entailed. He was a failure with an infamous reputation.

Cassandra fell into step beside him as they walked through the Chantry. “You might try speaking with her, you know,” the Seeker said.

Leliana had suggested as much, he remembered, before the Herald had left for the Hinterlands. “Another time, perhaps,” he said, knowing full well they were leaving again in the morning.

Cassandra made a dismissive gesture and headed for Leliana’s tent. 

Cullen doubted the Herald was in the mood for a friendly chat, anyway, given their recent conversation. Not that he cared; he had no interest in playing nice with someone who thought the sun shone out of her own ass. 

His suspicion about her mood was confirmed when he passed through the gates of the town. The Herald was in Cassandra’s usual spot, making short work of a practice dummy. He’d last seen her using a mace, but she’d traded it for a sword, and was methodically cycling through basic attacks as if she were any other recruit.

Her footwork is good, but she’s favoring her shield arm, he thought. Sloppy. 

As if she could hear him, she suddenly buried her blade to the hilt in a soft part of the target and pulled her shield off, throwing it to the ground with a disgusted expression. Her gauntlet soon followed. A few quick steps took her from bare earth to snow, and she crouched down to grab a pile of slush with her left hand. She stayed there, facing away from him, apparently staring out across the frozen lake. Looking at what, he wondered.

He was near enough to see the crackling of the mark on her hand, like a vicious green wound. It was bothering her; of course that would affect her shield work. Once again he remembered what Leliana had said to him. Maybe the spymaster was right; maybe he had more in common with her than he thought. And she had agreed with him about Lord Kildarn. If reaching out to the Herald meant she’d take his requests more seriously--

A runner approached him and saluted, hand to chest. “Commander, the quartermaster says the Herald filled that requisition for you. For the swords.”

The Herald dropped the snow and turned around, wiping her hand on her pants and retrieving her gauntlet. As she slid it on, their eyes met, and she nodded curtly before stooping to pick up her shield as well, then pulled the sword from the dummy and returning to her drills.

“Thank you,” he told the messenger, who saluted again and left. 

He did have work to do, but perhaps he should make time to speak with the woman after all.

Before he’d taken a single step in her direction, another runner shouted at him from the top of the steps. “Commander, you’re needed at the Chantry. Please, hurry!”

“What is it?” he called back.

Their eyes were wide with fear. “A few mages and templars started to argue, and--”

“Enough. I’ll handle it.” He cast a final glance toward the Herald, who was regarding him and the messenger thoughtfully, and headed for the Chantry to see what foolishness was unfolding there.

#

Hope left Commander Cullen and that vile chancellor standing in front of the Chantry as the last of the rabble-rousers dispersed. If that was what awaited her in Val Royeaux, she was far less eager to hurry over than she had been earlier. She was a bit gratified to hear the commander defend her, at least, even if he did so more for the Inquisition’s sake than her own.

And he'd come alone. He hadn't brought any of his soldiers along to stop the fighting by threat of violence. She'd followed in case he had need of her, as a symbol or a sword-arm, but he'd swayed the two sides without so much as touching his weapon.

Perhaps it was arrogance rather than wisdom that guided him, but given the content of his speech--emphasizing that they were all members of the Inquisition now--she was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

That thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Hope wandered into the Chantry, the smells of incense and beeswax soothing her even as they dredged up a mess of memories, good and bad. Perhaps she should write to her family sooner rather than later. Her mother would no doubt have useful advice, and her father… well. He might not approve of the whole Herald of Andraste business, but she knew she could count on him to support her however he could. And Grace had probably given birth, and who knew what Victor had done with her patrols while she was gone--yes, she must write.

There might be something Lady Josephine wanted her to discuss with them, she mused, so Hope continued through the Chantry to the ambassador’s office. Some marquis was already there, threatening to evict them from Haven. Hope was amused by the idea; she rather doubted the man had more troops than the Inquisition at the moment, for all that some were greener than an unripe fruit. However, fighting to keep their base of operations would be a diplomatic nightmare, she knew, and she was pleased to see Lady Josephine guide the situation toward a positive resolution.

It felt a bit like home, listening to the ambassador talk about family lines and Orlesian politics. Not the parts of home she was fond of, but the depth and breadth of knowledge, and the intelligence that put them to use, was something she respected immensely. And Lady Josephine did want her to write to her family, so the trip wasn't wasted. 

They chatted about that, and the accommodations--they were both freezing, though Hope suspected she was more accustomed to the relative discomfort after years of sharing a bunk--and when the ambassador dismissed her politely, Hope found her mood had lightened measurably. Even the chill of the air outside felt crisp and invigorating rather than bitterly cold, perhaps because spring was imminent?

Hope noticed Leliana praying fervently in her tent and was torn between interrupting her and leaving her to her private thoughts. She wandered over slowly, quietly, drawing near just in time to hear the last of the spymaster’s bitter prayer. The woman suddenly turned on Hope, wanted answers from her, but Hope had none. She wished she did; the mark on her hand was a constant reminder that something had been done to her, by someone, and she couldn’t remember a single thing about it.

She tried to offer what comfort she could, but it was rebuffed, and they were interrupted by a scout with a message that Leliana had apparently been waiting for. Hope listened in growing concern as the spymaster discussed a betrayal by one of her agents; it was a serious problem, to be sure, because it could compromise many others. But when Leliana ordered that the agent be killed, Hope couldn’t stop her immediate, visceral dismay. Once she had convinced the spymaster not to resort to murder, she left, any warmth from her conversation with Josephine gone as if she’d buried herself in a snowbank.

The tavern tempted her briefly, but she didn’t feel like being stared at, so she went for another walk around the lake. Past the blacksmith this time, down the path that led to a dock no doubt useful in summer, then along the water’s edge and off into the snow until she reached the underside of the bridge. There she found a frozen waterfall, and for one mad moment she thought she might try to climb it--the Herald of Andraste could surely manage such a feat, couldn’t she?

I'd look pretty flaming ridiculous for breaking my arm like this, Hope told herself. Or worse. _Hope Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, broke her neck climbing around where she shouldn't. The Maker works in mysterious ways._

She climbed up toward the higher hills opposite Haven. A herd of druffalo grazed in the distance, the occasional fennec darting among them, all pointed nose and bushy tail. The larger beasts were entirely unconcerned, and for a moment Hope thought that must be what the Maker was like: huge and unmoving, placidly watching as His creations skittered about on their own private errands.

One of the foxes paused in front of a broad brown snout, and the druffalo casually licked the creature, which ran away shrieking. That was just like the Maker as well, she thought wryly, and the mark on her hand pulsed briefly as if in agreement.

The wind stilled long enough for her to smell herself and cringe. With a sigh, Hope walked back to the village, resolving to write to her parents as soon as she'd had a bath. And then, it would be time to pack for Val Royeaux. 

She suspected cracking her head on the ice would be a more pleasant experience than Orlais.

#

Cullen knelt at one of the prayer benches in the Chantry and lit a thick beeswax candle with a taper left nearby for that purpose. He rested his forehead on his clasped hands and began to recite the Canticle of Trials to himself slowly, deliberately, his eyes closed. Around him, the Chantry sisters awakened, preparing themselves for the day, their soft steps and murmurs receding into a background drone as he fell deeper into his meditations. Despite his intentions, however, thoughts of work intruded.

While reports from the Hinterlands continued to improve, and more recruits made their way to the Inquisition, they still had not heard from the Herald--or Leliana’s scouts--since just before they were set to arrive in Val Royeaux. Surely at least one raven should have made it back by now; they couldn’t all be intercepted.

He clenched his eyes harder and rested his knuckles against his lips. He had known sending the Herald was a bad idea. It was too dangerous, and she was too sheltered, too rash for Chantry politics. Had the templars apprehended her? Was she in some dungeon awaiting trial for murdering the Most Holy? Had she been killed trying to resist arrest? And what would the Inquisition do about the Breach if the worst had come to pass?

“O Creator, see me kneel,” he murmured. He opened his eyes and stared at the flickering light before him, briefly considering pulling off a gauntlet to run his hand through the flame. Instead, he stood, the ache in the small of his back reminding him that he wasn’t getting any younger.

As he walked toward the door, Leliana approached, holding some rolled papers that she tapped against one leg absently.

“Commander,” she said. “We have news.”

They dismissed Minaeve from Josephine’s office and Leliana took a seat across from the ambassador, while Cullen stood, arms crossed. Sweet-smelling herbs burned in a brazier, no doubt meant to put the ambassador’s guests at ease, or perhaps for Josephine’s own benefit. At the moment, Cullen found them revolting.

Leliana recounted the events that had occurred in Val Royeaux as described in two letters she had received almost simultaneously, one from a scout who had been posted there, the other from the Herald and Cassandra.

“Unbelievable,” Cullen said. “Is your agent sure that--”

“Yes,” Leliana said, handing one paper to him and the other to Josephine.

He examined the letter she’d given him; it was the scout’s, and was as direct a report of what had transpired as he could want. That Revered Mother Hevara was posturing against them was not unexpected, but for her to be treated so violently... He didn’t know Lord Seeker Lucius himself, but the description of him sounded absurd, like some grandstanding noble rather than the head of the order. Meredith had been paranoid, absolutely mad by the end, but she had always been driven by her warped sense of duty to the people of Kirkwall. If the templars were withdrawing entirely, who were they serving but themselves?

Josephine made a surprised sound. “She's coming here?”

“Apparently so,” Leliana replied. “It has been some time since I last saw her, though I suppose that is to be expected given Duke Bastien’s health.”

“Who?” Cullen asked.

Josephine had grabbed her tablet and was scrawling furiously on a paper. “Lady Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and Enchanter to the Imperial Court. I shall have to provide fitting accommodations… perhaps here in the Chantry? Oh, what I wouldn't give for a proper chef.”

Cullen dropped the scout’s letter on her desk and retrieved the one she had been reading. The script was Leliana’s, tiny and neat, but the words were not.

 

_Sister Nightingale,_

_As you've no doubt learned, the Chantry in Val Royeaux denounced us as heretics and were subsequently themselves snubbed by the templars. Cassandra insists the Lord Seeker is behaving oddly and something is afoot; certainly some of the templars were less than thrilled by the spectacle. Grand Enchanter Fiona approached us as well, which was surprising given Redcliffe was in isolation when we left the Crossroads. How she managed to reach Val Royeaux before us is perhaps a question for Lady Vivienne._

_Speaking of the First Enchanter, she invited me to a salon at the Duke of Ghislain’s estate, and now travels with us back to Haven to join our cause. We've also retrieved one of the infamous Friends of Red Jenny, who is an archer of some skill, and led us to an Orlesian noble attempting to work against the Inquisition. He sadly acquired a terminal case of arrow to the neck after attempting to set me on fire._

_I am sorry our appeal to the Chantry was not more successful. I am sure we will discuss how best to proceed upon our return._

_Maker watch over you, &c _

_Hope_

_P. S. Please assure the commander I have not forgotten about the horses._

 

Cullen scowled. What cheek. As if she could do anything about that from Orlais. He scanned the letter once more, snorting at the arrow to the neck part, then tossed it back on the desk.

Leliana leaned forward in her chair, steepling her fingers. “If they are not delayed, they should return within the week. In the meantime, I have my people tracking the templars as best they can, and I’ve sent more to Redcliffe to see if they’ve opened the gates yet.”

“I shall see what some of my contacts among the nobility might be able to offer us in terms of support,” Josephine said. “They will be very interested to know that Lady Vivienne will be joining us here. She is quite adept at playing the Game, which will be a boon to us, and Duke Bastien is still head of the Council of Heralds, if only in name.”

Cullen’s nose prickled again at the burning herbs suffusing the room. Just what they needed: another stuffy noble like the Herald to waltz around acting superior. And a mage, no less. Perhaps he should post a templar guard outside the Chantry, for safety…

“Cullen.”

“Hmm?”

Leliana smiled gently. “I asked what became of Lord Kildarn and his refugee problem.”

“Ah, yes.” He sneered. “Lord Kildarn sent me a rather crude letter accusing me of accepting bribes from his neighbors. It was accompanied by a dozen soldiers wishing to join our cause.”

Josephine chuckled. “What was it the Herald called that kind of person? Ah, yes: a rashvine. I am inclined to agree.”

“I still think my scouts could have turned this in our favor,” Leliana said. “But I expect you are pleased to have the additional recruits, Commander.”

“I am.” She’s baiting me again, isn’t she, Cullen thought. Maker’s breath.

“Good. I will notify you at once if my agents unearth more information on the templars or mages,” Leliana said. She stood and drifted toward the door, hands clasped behind her back. “Oh, and Cullen?”

“Yes?

She smiled again, more broadly, all the way to her pale blue eyes. “The Herald has not forgotten about your horses.”

Definitely baiting him. He shook his head and, with a smirk, went back to his duties.

#

Hope stared into the campfire without seeing it, her hands loosely grasping a now-empty drinking horn that had once contained miserably watered-down wine. The air was still, smoke rising in gentle curling tendrils to dissipate in the night sky, and in the distance a pair of owls hooted to each other like guards calling the all’s-well.

“Sovereign for your thoughts,” Varric said, settling down next to her.

“Isn't it usually a copper?” Hope asked.

He grinned. “You're a bann’s daughter, aren't you? That gets you a premium.”

“Maker's breath, if I'd known that, I’d have been selling my thoughts for years.”

Varric pulled a pebble from under his backside and tossed it into the trees. “So what's eating you? Besides the obvious end of the world stuff.”

“Do you think…” Hope sighed and hung her head, then looked over at him. “Could I have stopped what happened in Val Royeaux?”

“That's what you're moping about?”

“I just keep thinking, if I had only said something differently, been more persuasive, more impressive--” If I were more my mother’s daughter than my father’s, she thought. If I were more than a sword arm and a strange magic mark.

“Look, Herald, that Revered Mother had already made up her mind to throw you under the cart long before you showed up. And if the Lord Seeker wasn't rehearsing his little speech for a week, I'll eat Bianca.”

Hope snorted, imagining the man practicing in front of a mirror to get the facial expressions right. She'd done much the same before leaving Ostwick, to prepare for the Conclave.

“I don't think Bianca would appreciate you gambling on her life,” she said.

“I've played enough Wicked Grace to know a safe bet when I see one.” He leaned closer, his blue eyes softening with concern. “You remind me a little of Hawke sometimes.”

“Nugshit,” Hope exclaimed.

“Fine, probably more like Aveline or Curly, but hear me out. You and Hawke both have a habit of putting on brave faces when things get tough. She always cracks jokes, but you tend to get all noble and Herald-y instead. Underneath though, she’s worried about doing the right thing, keeping her friends and family safe, helping people--”

“And killing people.” The comparison to the guard-captain warmed her, but who was Curly?

“Don't interrupt, I'm on a roll. Anyway, you worry about the same shit, you just process it differently. And she wasn't always the Champion of Kirkwall, either.”

Hope smirked. “Big shoes to fill. Though I suppose I do have a leg up, being a Marcher instead of Fereldan.”

“See, and you're better at deadpanning,” he said. “Hawke always sounds sarcastic even when she’s being serious as a Chantry sister.”

They sat in silence, Hope now leaning back with her palms on the ground, staring up at the stars instead of down at the campfire. The sky was clear, blue-black velvet strewn with glittering quartz, in constellations she only vaguely remembered from lessons as a child. The larger moon crested the tops of the trees while the smaller was nowhere in sight.

Like the Maker, she thought. There, but hidden.

“You really think I'm like the guard-captain?” Hope asked softly.

Varric laughed. “Oh, I see how it is. I can't wait to tell Hawke she lost a member of her fan club to Aveline.”

Hope’s neck and face flushed. “I only ever saw the Champion in passing,” she protested. “I saw the guard-captain every day.”

“Familiarity is supposed to breed contempt, you know.”

“Says the person who wrote a whole book about the adventures of his closest friends.”

“You should see the one I wrote about Aveline,” he murmured.

Before Hope could ask, a blonde head stood over her, upside-down from her vantage.

“Lady Herald, yeah,” Sera said. “D’you ever think about what sorts of thing are best for throwing? Not like smalls and knives and such, but y’know. Other stuff.”

“Balls?” Hope asked.

Sera snickered. “What, are you serious, because… balls! Really?”

Hope covered her face with her hands and Varric smirked. “I take it back,” he said. “Aveline would have known better than to walk into that one. You're definitely more like Curly.”

“Right, fine, I deserved that,” Hope said. “But who the flames is Curly?”

#

Cullen’s first warning that the Herald had returned was a runner from Leliana, who had been informed by a scout waiting along the path to Haven. He was outside watching the troops drill, enjoying the cold air and the rare, precious gift of having woken up without any withdrawal symptoms. With a sigh, he retreated to his tent and buried himself in his work, trying to get as much done as possible before she and Cassandra arrived, knowing that this might be his last chance to convince the others they should seek templar aid rather than approaching the rebel mages. For all that the templars seemed to have lost their senses.

His second warning was the sound of her laughter.

He didn't recognize it at first, since he'd never heard it before. It wasn’t like the stuttering giggle someone else was making, or the deep chuckle he knew was Varric--it was warm, rich, smooth as West Hill Brandy served neat.

Putting his papers aside, he stood and lifted the flap of his tent to peer out at the party approaching the soldiers at their drills. He could just hear them over the sound of weapons clashing, and soon they came into view.

The Herald was flanked by Cassandra and Varric, all of them watching a blonde elf in appalling yellow breeches try on a broad-brimmed leather hat.

“Ooh, look at me, I’m the Lady Herald,” she said, strutting in a tight circle that still kept her in front of the others. “My hand is glowy and my bum is tight!”

The Herald laughed again, a smile lighting up her face. Cullen realized he hadn’t seen her smile before, either. It was, well. Something.

“An excellent impression of me,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Varric said. “How tight is your ass, really?”

The elf giggled again. “Can't see it for all the armor. Bet I'm right, though.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and stalked ahead of them, taking the stairs up to the gates two at a time. The Herald watched the Seeker go, then glanced up at the Breach, her smile fading like sunlight lost to clouds.

“Why don’t you keep the hat, Sera,” she said. “It suits you better.”

“Nah, too floppy,” the elf replied, taking it off.

“Varric, then.”

The dwarf held up his hands. “Not after how you laughed when I put it on. Maybe you can give it to Chuckles, so he doesn’t get a sunburn.”

Solas drifted into view. “I am perfectly capable of avoiding a sunburn without one, thank you.”

A dark, imposingly beautiful woman joined them. “My dear, as riveting as this discussion of tragic fashion mistakes has been, might I trouble you for a tour of the area?”

“Of course, Lady Vivienne,” the Herald replied, bowing politely.

That must be the First Enchanter. How is her hat better than the other one, Cullen thought, eying its dragon-like points. Very Orlesian. At least she wasn’t wearing a mask.

Varric watched the two women walk toward the stables, shaking his head sadly and following the rest of the group up the steps. Cullen let the tent flap close and quietly, thoughtfully, he sat back down and stared at the piles of paper on his table without really seeing them.

He'd formed a particular mental picture of the Herald, he knew, from their limited interactions. And thus far he hadn't had the chance to--no, be honest, he scolded himself. You've avoided her. And it’s not about her, who she is or isn’t.

It’s about Kirkwall.

When Cassandra recruited him, she had told him he gave himself too little credit. He rather thought she gave him too much, with all that had happened. He had been so eager to prove himself, to show he could do better, that he had engaged the Herald as if she were a rival rather than an ally. That was no way to command respect, and he knew it.

All right, he told himself sternly, as if he were a fresh recruit. No more excuses. You will seek her out today, and you will be pleasant no matter how stuck-up and self-involved she is. You remember how to do that, don’t you? Be pleasant?

But first, there was the little matter of the templars to deal with.

Cullen stood, strapped on his sword, and headed toward the Chantry, the memory of the Herald’s laugh filling him with quiet determination. Overhead, a bank of clouds rolled in, promising more snow before the day was done.

#

Before Hope could even make it to the war table with Cassandra, she was practically ambushed in the middle of the Chantry. The various sisters and mothers looked away respectfully, but were clearly hanging on every word.

Everyone knew what had happened in Val Royeaux, of course, but they were still divided as to how they should proceed. Josephine and Leliana seemed inclined to seek out the mages, while Cassandra and Commander Cullen wanted to approach the templars. She was surprised how venomous he was toward them, even as he suggested it; his opinion seemed to hinge on the expectation that some, like him, would question the order’s leadership enough to defect. Certainly a few had seemed shaken by the Lord Seeker’s actions, but they'd followed anyway.

Hope supposed she could see why the commander might find that galling. A bit close for comfort, no doubt.

Neither option seemed particularly safe, especially since they still didn't know who had caused the explosion at the Conclave, but she was personally leaning toward the templars, mostly because the idea of pouring more magic through her mark was extremely unsettling. At the same time, they had been far more hostile, while Grand Enchanter Fiona had explicitly invited them to seek an alliance. A trap, possibly, but one they might be able to spring on their own terms if it were expected.

A few times, Hope thought she caught the commander eying her with… certainly not disdain, as he had the last time they spoke. Not respect either, but something perhaps a shade warmer than neutrality. His tone was still gruff, his posture stiff as he leaned on his sword, but this time he said nothing that made her want to reach across the table and shake him.

Perhaps because there was no table between them this time. And because of what Varric had said. “Curly” indeed.

She admonished them to stop arguing and make a choice, before realizing that doing so suggested she would abide by whatever they decided rather than being involved in the decision. Too late, she told herself. Can't take it back. At least Cassandra agreed with her on that point.

The others left her with Leliana, who presented strange news about a Grey Warden recruiting in the Hinterlands. Certainly they were said to be formidable fighters, and his presence was worth looking into. 

Plus, it would give her a chance to get those bloody horses for the commander.

On stepping outside, Hope realized it had begun to snow, a light dusting of flakes that drifted on the breeze. Some clung to her hair, others to her armor, still others were cheeky enough to caress her face like cold kisses. She looked up at the Breach in the distance, its great green glow sending flickers through the clouds like light on the ocean’s waves more than lightning in a storm, a constant reminder of her failure and ongoing mission. It had to be sealed, whatever the cost. Her mark spat as if offended, and she clenched her hand into a fist.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a messenger standing nearby, who turned out to be from the Bull’s Chargers, a mercenary company interested in working with the Inquisition. Hope rather thought hiring mercenaries worked the other way around, but she expected the others would be happy to take help where it was offered, and it couldn't hurt to see what Tevinter was up to out there. Perhaps she should even do that before going back to the Hinterlands; it was on the other side of Ferelden entirely, but if they needed more agents to help persuade one faction or the other to ally with them…

She resolved to ask Cassandra about it and headed out for the training area. As she came down the stairs, though, she heard something that gave her pause.

“You there! There's a shield in your hand. Block with it.”

The commander, shouting at his recruits. She had a sudden memory of Ser Rylen laughing when she'd admonished them in the same way, and Varric’s comment on their similarities dug a little deeper.

You should talk to him, she told herself. He is who he is, but you'll at least be working together until the Breach is sealed. No sense being enemies when you're both on the same side.

Was she really so like him? If that were true, she could imagine he felt as worried as she did, grasping at threads of control over the chaos around him. Putting on a stern face to hide his concern. Yelling at soldiers for their own good, she thought ruefully.

Honey, not vinegar, she could hear her mother say. The sweet medicine is swallowed more readily than the bitter.

She could always get Cassandra’s input later. Buoyed by a wave of determination, Hope headed for the commander. She couldn't make things any worse between them, at least. Could she?

#

As it turned out, Cullen didn't have to go looking for the Herald. As he stood in the deepening snow, his breath misting in the air only to be carried away by the wind, she approached him first.

They eyed each other for a moment in silence, which he broke, searching for neutral conversational ground. He tried to really look at her instead of seeing whatever predetermined image he had fixed in his mind, to listen not just to what she said but how she said it. One moment she seemed earnest, eager to help, the next she was cracking dry jokes about the gravity of the situation. Was it all a façade? Was she just another noble playing that blasted Game Leliana and Josephine were always going on about? Or was this really who she was?

Would a conniving noble have offered you her own helm in the ruins of the Temple, he thought, staring at the forked scar on her face.

A messenger distracted him, and he found himself simultaneously reading a note from the quartermaster and rambling to the Herald about what he hoped the Inquisition could accomplish. If he could only make her see that they could do so much more than merely close the Breach…

He came to himself suddenly and apologized for the lecture, cursing inwardly for losing focus. He was trying to win her over, and instead he was talking her ear off. Maker, he should have taken more time to plan what he wanted to say. She'd caught him off guard, showing up as she had.

To his complete surprise, she made a joke of it, and followed it with a smile. Not the kind of diplomatic smile Josephine had perfected, or the tight-lipped one Leliana favored. The Herald’s was wide enough to bunch up her cheeks, her brown eyes crinkling merrily at the edges.

He was so taken aback that he couldn't think of a single reply, coughing to cover his loss of composure. If another messenger hadn't appeared then, he wasn't sure what he would have done--stood there like some kind of sleeping druffalo?--but thankfully he recovered and returned her smile before excusing himself.

Maker’s breath, he thought. What was that?

Rylen awaited him in his tent, leaning over the paper-strewn table. “Got some more leads on sourcing the--Maferath’s hairy balls, you look like you've swallowed a pine cone. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Cullen said, scowling.

“Fine, I'll get it out of the lieutenant later.”

“No, it's…” He sat down, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his forehead on his hand. “Have you ever been climbing a flight of stairs without paying attention, and thought there was one more step left, but you put your foot down on empty air?”

He looked up to see Rylen studying him intently. “Did you trip going into town? I thought you were outside with the recruits.”

“I was. And the Herald.”

“Ah.” Rylen snorted. “Don't tell me she's got you thinking she’s the Chosen of Andraste now, too? I mean, it's possible, but I've seen her spit in the bushes like anyone else. Keep having to shout at our people when she walks by, though, or they go all halla-eyed.”

“Do they,” Cullen said wryly.

“You don't hear the new ones? Bunch of ‘em joined up because she pulled their bacon out of the fire herself. Sealed a rift, fought a sellsword, killed a rogue mage… girl’s busy as King Alistair’s cheesemonger.” Rylen raised an eyebrow. “You read the reports, don't you?”

“I rather thought Lady Cassandra was doing most of the work, and the Herald taking the credit.”

Rylen grinned. “You can always try that demonstration idea, like I said. If they can see firsthand she's just a fighter like they are…”

“Perhaps,” Cullen replied. “Though it's possible she functions better as a figurehead for them to rally around.” He thought of her smile, then of the serious expression she normally wore. Maker’s breath, he thought, have I had it backward this whole time? She's not full of herself. She's giving them what she thinks they need. What she thinks we want of her.

“Figureheads is how we got here,” Rylen said. “Better a soldier believe in the strength of their own arm, than expect the Maker to give them an edge in a fight.”

“True enough.” And she’d been training soldiers in Ostwick before she came to the Conclave, hadn’t she? Could she spare an extra day in Haven? He’d ask her. Or perhaps Cassandra… No, he admonished himself, you will stop avoiding her. You are colleagues and you will act like it.

Maybe she’ll smile at you again, a small voice said, and he smothered it like the last embers of a campfire.

“So,” he said. “About those supply lines…”

#

Hope sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in The Singing Maiden, sipping weak ale and trying to parse what Sera was telling her. They were speaking the same language, and yet the elf managed to erect phrases that required a degree of deconstruction and translation that Hope was unused to outside of ballroom politics. They were also usually innuendos, and a few times she got the impression that flirting was happening, though by the time she figured it out the conversation had moved on. Varric had been with them initially, but he’d excused himself and left two rounds earlier, citing a need to write some things down before he forgot them.

She was just getting ready to do the same when Sera leaned sideways to look at something behind Hope. “Here’s the big jackboots, then. Hope they don’t stomp all over the fun.”

Hope twisted in her seat to look. The commander had ambled in with Ser Rylen and his lieutenant, the three of them apparently engaged in a jovial argument given their smiles and salty tones. They leaned against the bar, where Flissa’s flirting was far more intelligible and direct than Sera’s. As Bann Trevelyan would say, you could see all the way to the girl’s spirit, leaning forward as she was.

“Wasted on templars,” Sera said darkly.

“What?” Hope asked, bringing her drink to her lips.

“Sweet words and eyelash flutters. They’re all ‘Maker this’ and ‘Maker that’ and then you’re taking care of your own self while they pray in the corner for forgiveness.”

Hope choked on her ale, coughing to clear her lungs. Some of her thoughts must have shown on her reddened face, because Sera started laughing maniacally.

“Hit the target, yeah?” the elf said. “You all right? Don’t want to kill the Herald with a joke. Never get things back to normal then.”

“I’m fine,” Hope gasped. “Maker’s breath. No joke. Happened to me twice.”

Sera’s eyes crinkled and she hollered in delight. “Don’t you move,” she said. “I’m getting more swill.”

Hope watched her approach the bar, then turn back to make a gagging face while pointing at the commander’s backside, which was covered by his long coat. Hope snickered, her hand flying to her mouth when the man looked down at Sera quizzically. The elf painted a serious expression on her face and snapped off a mocking salute, then slid between him and Ser Rylen to ask Flissa for the drinks. She couldn’t hear what was said between them all, but next thing she knew, the commander and Ser Rylen were up and walking toward her, each carrying their drinks as Sera scowled in front of them.

“Found some strays, yeah?” Sera said, sliding back into her seat. “Told ‘em we were busy but they followed me home.”

Commander Cullen’s scarred lip twitched as if he were suppressing a smile, but Ser Rylen grinned despite the barb. “We‘ll be quick,” the knight-captain said. “Cullen and I were wondering if you might have time for a little demonstration, for the troops.”

“What kind of demonstration?” Hope asked, pulling the new mug of ale toward her. Weak as it was, she’d already had three, and she knew the flush in her cheeks was accompanied by a looser tongue. 

“Some advanced techniques, perhaps,” he said. “It’ll help those who already mastered the basics, and give the rest something to aim for.” 

Sera snorted. “Advanced techniques.” She waggled her eyebrows at Hope, who did laugh now.

The commander stood silently, holding his mug like a shield. Hope stifled another chuckle at the thought of him defending himself with it like a drunk at the Hanged Man.

She considered the request as she took a few more sips of her ale. Her mother’s voice, which would normally be counseling her, was remarkably far away. Some part of her knew she had to be the Herald, had to be cool and collected and wise and--but she’d been with Sera for too long that evening, and she’d broken the ice with the man earlier, and if she were honest with herself, she’d been looking for an excuse to take a break from being so blessed proper. 

In a tavern, though? her inner voice asked. In front of everyone?

Andraste’s tits, she replied. Shut it.

“I don’t know,” she said pensively. “I have a very busy schedule. If I don’t get horses for the Inquisition’s commander, I’m afraid he’ll have me running laps around the lake.”

Ser Rylen hid his smile with his mug, while Sera lost herself in a fit of giggles.

The commander finally found his voice. “I suppose that’s true,” he answered, smirking. “In full gear, no doubt.”

“Can’t have anyone seeing your tight bum,” Sera added, and Hope flushed, making a rude gesture.

“He is cruel, but fair,” Rylen said solemnly. “I’m sure I can convince him to give you a special dispensation, just this once. What do you think, Cullen?”

“Yes, Cullen,” Hope said, putting emphasis on the name. “What do you think?”

His smile broadened. “I think the commander might see reason, if approached cautiously.”

Hope raised her mug to him in salute. “I leave my fate in your capable hands, then. Is tomorrow morning acceptable?”

“Quite. Would the Lady Cassandra be willing to accompany you as well, do you think?”

“I’ll ask her, unless you want to do it yourselves. No danger of her being made to run laps, I expect.”

The knight-captain gave a short laugh. “Like to see the commander try that one.”

Hope nodded solemnly. “That would be its own demonstration of advanced techniques, I suppose.” Her serious expression didn’t hold; the longer she thought about Cassandra being ordered around like a recruit, the wider she smiled, staring off into the fireplace. 

She came back to herself with a start and looked up at the commander, who wore his own far-off smile. Their eyes met and he coughed, taking a pull of his ale.

“Enough of this pish, yeah? We have important arses to talk about.” Sera made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on, you two. Go play with your swords.”

The men bowed politely and returned to the bar, interrupting the lieutenant, who had been the sole recipient of Flissa’s advances and seemed a bit sore to give that up.

The air in the tavern felt hotter for some reason, despite the snow still falling steadily outside, piling up in inconvenient places and making the paths around Haven slippery. Hope stared out the window, her mirth replaced by idle musing about what the commander might want her to show the recruits. She’d have to coordinate with Cassandra, perhaps organize a--

“Oy, Lady Herald,” Sera said, snapping her fingers. “Lost you there, yeah?”

“Right, sorry,” Hope said, running a hand through her hair. “I started thinking about what we could demonstrate.”

Sera’s eyes widened wickedly. “You and Cassandra? I got a few suggestions. First, we get a whole basket of peaches--”

“Sera!” Hope laughed, shaking her head. She turned to glance at the commander, drinking quietly at the bar, and thought perhaps they might be able to work together after all.

#

Lady Trevelyan wiped her forehead with the back of her gloved sword hand and settled into the basic stance they taught the recruits, shield leg forward and sword leg back, Cassandra mirroring her actions. The demonstration had been going well enough so far, Cullen thought, with emphasis on controlling the opponent’s sword to maneuver their own in a way that targeted weak points. Certainly beyond the skill of the soldiers who were still mastering footwork, but as Rylen had said, it gave them something to aspire to.

And the recruits seemed interested, whether because they were getting a close look at the famed Herald of Andraste and the Right Hand of the Divine, or because they were generally invested in not dying. Even some of the regular laborers were pausing in their duties to watch.

“All right,” Trevelyan said. “Do any of you play chess?”

The hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stood up. If she hadn’t had his attention before, she certainly did now.

Some of the recruits raised their hands, and she nodded acknowledgement. “I play against my mother, mostly, and let me tell you, I’m rubbish compared to her.” That earned a few chuckles. “So here are two techniques that, well, are the same kind of thing she pulls on me, and she gets me every time.”

With a smooth motion, Lady Trevelyan reversed her stance and crossed her right arm over her body so that her sword was pointing backward on her left side. She placed her shield in front of her, apparently locking the weapon away, unusable. Cullen hadn’t seen this technique before, and he immediately found himself wondering at its efficacy. It left her head completely exposed.

Think, Rutherford, he told himself. Why would she--

“Looks pretty foolish, doesn’t it?” she said, and muttered assents replied. “Lady Cassandra, what do you think?”

“I think I should end this quickly by taking your head,” the Seeker said dryly.

“Try it, then.”

As with each technique they’d demonstrated, the first attack was at full speed. Cassandra slid her back foot forward and aimed a strike at Trevelyan’s unguarded head--

\--only to have the blow knocked aside by the Herald’s shield as she moved in, fast as lightning, to slice upward at the now-exposed underside of Cassandra’s sword arm.

“Let’s see that again, slowly,” Trevelyan said, and they repeated the motions at a crawl, their movements controlled but still fluid. “I’ve left my head apparently unguarded, which lures my opponent into an attack. Because I expect it, I’m prepared for it, and I can react accordingly. It’s a risky move, however, and less effective against temp--against warriors with tower shields.” They all knew she meant templars, but Cullen appreciated the effort.

“What do we do against those?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Run,” another recruit advised, earning some dark laughs.

Lady Trevelyan smiled, and this was not the friendly one Cullen was beginning to quite enjoy. This smile was bitter, and not a little sad. 

“That brings me to the second technique that puts me in mind of chess,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll need a volunteer for this one.”

To his surprise, no one stepped forward. She seemed taken aback as well, resting her sword on her shoulder and eying the recruits with a raised brow. A sharp wind off the lake whipped her hair and she brushed it back impatiently--it had grown since he first met her, he realized, and now fell into her eyes if unchecked.

“I’ll do it,” Cullen said, stepping forward. A brief cheer went up, but he suppressed it with a look.

“Thank you, Commander,” the Herald said, bowing politely. “I don’t suppose you have a tower shield handy?”

“I’m afraid not.” He picked up one of the recruit’s shields, not having time to retrieve his own from his tent.

“We’ll have to imagine it then.” She settled into the basic stance and he mimicked her motion as Cassandra had. “All right, so you and you fellow soldiers come upon a warrior with a tower shield. Full plate, which means the weak points are neck, underarm, elbow and groin. Good luck reaching the groin,” she said, tossing a smile over her shoulder, some chuckles replying.

Her eyes met Cullen’s and the smile faded. For a moment, she looked sad again, her lips pressing together and her brow furrowing, as if she had lost herself to an unpleasant memory. Perhaps she was aware of the unpleasant irony of teaching soldiers, some former templars themselves, how to kill the very people who were meant to be protecting them. Perhaps she was thinking of how many of his own men she had killed once, long ago.

“Chess, Lady Trevelyan,” he murmured.

“Of course,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “Ready, Commander?”

“At your leisure,” he said.

She roared at him and attacked his sword arm, which he parried easily, despite his moment of surprise at her ferocity. If he’d carried a larger shield, the blow would have had no effect at all.

“Come on!” she shouted at him. “Face me!” 

He snarled in response, shifting his stance to give him extra reach, watching her eyes, her hips, to see where she would strike next.

He needn’t have bothered. The touch of cold steel on his neck froze him in place, the Seeker’s shield at his back applying additional, gentle pressure.

Lady Trevelyan sheathed her sword and slid her shield onto her back. “That, recruits, is how you handle someone in full plate with a tower shield. Their helms restrict visibility, and the shield only provides protection from the front. One of you must distract the temp--the warrior you face, while others sneak around behind. Archers, aim for the head, and anyone with a blade aim for the groin or neck. If you’re strong enough, you can try knocking them to the ground with your shield, as Lady Cassandra is demonstrating.”

“What if you’re alone?” someone asked.

She smiled. “Don’t be. Chess relies on all the pieces working together, and so should you. And if you are alone, I believe ‘run’ was suggested earlier? Running is good. You’re probably faster than anyone carrying that much weight.” She turned back to Cullen and offered him another bow. “Thank you, Commander, for your assistance, and for allowing me and Lady Cassandra the chance to address your troops.”

“My pleasure entirely, Herald, Lady Cassandra,” he replied, sheathing his own sword. “Right, everyone, once around the lake to warm up, then the lieutenant will pair you off for drills. Move!”

Those who weren’t already standing scrambled to their feet and took off, settling into an easy jog. Lady Trevelyan watched them go, that sad smile touching her lips again as she linked her hands behind her back. A thick cloud shadowed the sun, and the snow that had held off as if in respect began to fall now. She looked up at the sky and sighed, and he wondered whether the cold or the Breach was to blame.

“I suppose we won’t be leaving today after all, Cassandra,” she said.

The Seeker pursed her lips. “I am sure Josephine will have plenty of tasks to occupy our time.”

“Paperwork,” Lady Trevelyan muttered darkly, and Cullen snorted. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. “Congratulations, Rutherford, you’ve found the great weakness of the Herald of Andraste. Do keep it secret from our enemies, lest a plague of mail be my undoing.”

“As commander of the Inquisition, it is my sworn duty to protect you from such dangers,” he said. “I will have the fire in your quarters stoked presently.”

She laughed, and even Cassandra smiled at the exchange.

“Come on, then,” she told the Seeker. “I’m ready for second breakfast, if diplomacy is to be our fate.” She nodded at Cullen, still grinning. “Commander.”

“Herald,” he replied, hand on his sword. She jogged up the steps, her dark hair catching bits of snow as she went, and he watched her until she disappeared through the great double doors to Haven’s interior.

Perhaps one of these days, he thought, I might invite her to play chess...

Rylen approached from his left, standing beside Cullen and crossing his arms. “That went well, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cullen replied. “Yes, I believe it did.”


	4. Courante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope gains two new companions and loses what little good will she'd earned from the Commander. And then, everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pawn to B4. Bishop takes pawn at B4.

Maker, though I am but one, I have called in your name.  
And those who come to serve will know your glory.  
I remembered for them.  
They will see what can be gained,  
And though we are few against the wind, we are yours.  
\--Trials 5:1

 

The best thing Hope could say about the Storm Coast was that it wasn't on fire. However, in the time it took to reach the camp and get debriefed by Scout Harding, Hope found herself inclined to start setting things on fire if it meant drying herself off. It did remind her of home a bit, the way the cliffs rose like sheer walls over the roiling sea, and she found herself missing both Ostwick and Kirkwall at once.

Smelled better than Kirkwall, at least. More trees, too.

After a rousing fight against the Venatori from Tevinter, she met The Iron Bull, a Qunari with horns as big as his namesake and muscles to match. As edgy as his position as a Ben-Hassrath made her--once he explained what it was--she found that she rather liked him. He had an aura of calm about him, of competence, as if he could be confronted by any enemy and would simply size them up and do what had to be done.

That impression lasted until they found a dragon fighting a giant. Then he reminded her of her father, that same childlike pleasure in witnessing two great foes locked in combat.

Sera liked that as well, though Solas was less enthusiastic. Cassandra had been sent back to camp to get a head start on paperwork while they searched for missing Inquisition scouts in the mountains.

Unfortunately, they found them. Or what was left of them.

Hope swallowed a lump in her throat as she examined the bodies and considered what to do about the Blades of Hessarian, who were apparently responsible.

"Let's go put some arrows in their stupid faces," Sera said.

"Perhaps the situation can be resolved with minimal bloodshed, if you perform this ritual of theirs," Solas said.

Bull folded his arms over his massive chest. “Strange that they’d just leave instructions like that lying around for someone to find.”

“Could be they’re not keen on following whoever is giving them orders at present. We can use that.” Hope examined the paper describing the ceremony. "We'd need to find deepstalkers first, it looks like."

"My Chargers saw some in the caves nearby when we were scouting the area," Bull noted. "I can lead the way, but it may be a waste of time."

"Arrows are faster," Sera said. "Twangy-twang, bad guys dead, we go home."

"I'd rather kill one man than a dozen or more," Hope said. "If ridding the world of a few deepstalkers means a duel instead of a bloodbath, it's worth it."

Sera scowled. "Fine, your Heraldness." Muttering, she added, "Maybe get you a pair of grownup britches when we get back. And bigger armor."

Hope chuckled and followed Bull as he guided them toward the caves, watching the waves crash against the stepped stones and hoping her plan would work.

#

Cullen sat in his tent and stared at the letter Leliana had delivered, with the latest report from the Herald. It ended with a cheeky, "Please assure the Commander that his horses are my next priority."

"Of course they are," he said sarcastically. "I suspect they'll be her next priority until that blighted Breach swallows us all." 

Outside, a shout rose from the soldiers in training, who were engaged in a sparring competition that had started a few hours earlier. Between the noise and the near-constant whistling of the cold wind through his tent, Cullen was ready to beat his aching head against a rock until he lost consciousness.

Leliana smiled, hands clasped behind her back. "Our influence does continue to spread, however. Not only has she closed a number of rifts and impressed this mercenary company--"

"Which we are paying quite a lot, according to Josephine."

"Certainly, but their reputation is good. And the Herald managed to recruit these Blades of Hessarian to our cause--"

"In a manner of speaking, given that they only answer to her."

Leliana paced slowly around Cullen. "Someone is feeling rather contrary today, hmm?"

He sighed and ran his hands over his face, wincing when his fingers found one of the places where he'd cut himself shaving earlier. He and Trevelyan had reconciled, more or less, but that didn’t mean he suddenly approved of her choices when he hadn’t before.

"It seems for every problem we solve, ten more appear," he murmured. "And the Herald is gallivanting all over Ferelden, moving so slowly, according to her own whims."

"Whims, or judgment?" Leliana gestured at the report. "You or I may not have undergone this ritual as she did, but then we would have reaped more death instead of fresh agents to be our eyes in the area."

"She couldn't have known it would work."

"None of us know the Maker's plan. The Herald is his tool as much as she is ours."

"And her own," he muttered. "Which is what worries me the most. She's unpredictable."

"Now it is my turn to be contrary," Leliana said. "I think she's quite predictable, in fact."

Cullen looked up at the spymaster, narrowing his eyes. "Is she?"

"Not to you, it seems. In all her dealings thus far, she's sought diplomatic solutions before turning to the sword. She shows sympathy toward apostates, but respect for the Circle and templars. She kills reluctantly but efficiently, and once committed she is absolutely tenacious."

"You sound as ready to worship her as some of my soldiers."

"Certainly not. I am trying to make you see her for who she is. She is almost absurdly fair, based on the information she is given, which is a weakness because she is also too trusting. She tries to please everyone, and failing that, she sides with whoever she believes is in the right, which is typically the weak instead of the strong. And if there is a problem in front of her, she will see it solved, even if it means delaying on a larger concern."

"Like horses."

"Like horses." Leliana strode toward the tent flap. "She is angering many, make no mistake. But whether we would have wanted them as our allies...?"

"The last thing we need is another champion of the people to give someone a reason to blow up a Chantry," Cullen said.

"I do not think she will be," Leliana replied. "I rather hope she will inspire them to build a new Chantry instead." Smirking, she left, a gust of cold sending his papers scattering to the bare dirt floor.

Sure she will, he thought bitterly. And I'll lead an army to victory against Adamant Fortress.

With a sigh, he began to collect his mess. The Herald might be kind enough, and well-intentioned, but kindness and intentions wouldn't solve the problems of Thedas. Perhaps someday they would be friends, but he wasn't going to let her jeopardize the Inquisition if he could help it.

#

Cassandra glared at Hope, and Hope glared right back, holding her shield over her head to ward off the rain.

"We cannot simply leave them to die," Hope said.

"They were aware of the risks," Cassandra countered. "You are more important than our soldiers. Without you, we cannot--"

"Nugshit. I am not more important than anyone else. Just because I have this mark on my hand doesn't mean my life has more value than theirs. If I could give the blighted thing away I would."

"But you cannot."

"Right. So you, my dear nursemaid, can watch my back to be sure I don't die." Hope smiled humorlessly. "Unless you'd rather I take Bull instead."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and stalked off, leaving the fire in Hope's belly to burn out as the cold rain did its work.

She stared into the trees, considering the message they'd received about the agents in the Fallow Mire. Scout Harding said the leader of the Avvar there wanted to fight her, to show the power of his gods over hers. Certainly Cassandra wasn't wrong: if she lost, with the Breach still in the sky, the whole world could be destroyed.

But if she left these people to die when she could have saved them, what kind of world would she be preserving? One without loyalty or honor?

Hope wasn't so vain as to believe she was the Maker's divine instrument, no more than anyone else was. But she had to trust that if he meant for the world to end, nothing she did would stop it. And if he didn't, then she would survive, or they would find another way to seal the Breach without her.

 _Hope Trevelyan, killed by unwarranted optimism founded on questionable theology_. She had a sudden urge to get back to the Hinterlands so she could settle for a shorter epitaph. _Killed by a bear_ , for example.

"You okay, Boss?" Bull asked, ambling up next to her and leaning against a tree. He didn't seem bothered by the wet and cold, despite not wearing a shirt.

"My mother always told me I couldn't see the forest for the trees," Hope said. "Sometimes I think I can't see the trees for the leaves."

"Without leaves, the tree will die," Bull replied. "But it's the roots you really have to worry about. Tree can grow new leaves, but without roots, it's just firewood waiting to be chopped."

"Bull," Hope said, "you are uncomfortably insightful."

"And you seem good at second-guessing yourself. Try hitting things instead. Works pretty well for me."

Hope grinned, her mood lightening even as the rain finally slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. The setting sun limned the forest and clouds in gold, pretty as a painting, but she found herself wondering about the roots, buried in darkness, hidden yet vital.

#

It was weeks before the Herald and her companions limped back into Haven, literally. Cassandra walked ahead of the group, her expression as sour as if she'd chewed spindleweed, Sera trailing after her making faces at her back. Behind them came Solas and the Qunari who must be The Iron Bull, the former warily watching Lady Trevelyan while the latter kept offering to carry her.

Trevelyan, meanwhile, favored her right leg, whose thigh was tightly wrapped in bandages. Her lips were pressed together, no doubt from the pain, but she waved Bull off and continued her slow progress, hand gripping the pommel of her sword. The mark flickered as if agitated.

Cullen watched the procession in disgust, making straight for the Seeker. "How could you let her--"

"You think I supported this nonsense?" Cassandra spat. "Her head is harder than yours, and that is saying something."

"I'm going to--"

"Do not waste your breath on chastising her. She has an uncanny ability to stare past you, then apologize for troubling you without actually being sorry for what she did." Her expression softened slightly. “She did save our people, though. And the strangest thing was, they expected her to. Already they believe in her, past all reason.”

"Maker's breath," he said. "And look at my recruits."

The soldiers had stopped sparring to watch the Herald return from her victory against the Avvar and their false gods. A few even cheered, though Rylen silenced them quickly enough. Others simply saluted quietly, which the Herald acknowledged with a curt nod.

Then, she made eye contact with Cullen. A hesitant smile touched her lips.

He snarled and turned away, stalking toward the lake, which was still frozen despite the sun shining overhead. A few people had carved holes in the surface and were fishing for their dinner, while some Chantry sisters walked meditatively along the shoreline. As still as the air was, he could hear soft snatches of the Chant of Light as they sang. It was not the balm to his heart that it usually was.

Cullen wasn't sure how long he stood there, squinting at the sun reflecting off the snow and ice, before the sound of armor clanked behind him. She smelled of wool wax and elfroot, but the lyrium still tainting his blood told him she hadn't been healed by magic yet. He glanced sideways at Lady Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, stubborn idiot, and wondered if anyone alive could beat sense into the woman.

She stared across the lake in silence. He had the impression that she was allowing him the space to say something first, if he wished, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. What did she want him to say? Did she want to argue about the merits of her choice, as she had with Cassandra? He would not be swayed to her side, so arguing was pointless. Was she hoping for his forgiveness, his approval? She’d get neither.

“Walk with me, Commander,” she said quietly.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he replied, as neutrally as he could manage.

“Yes. But I’m going to walk instead.”

Alone, if he didn’t accompany her. The area should be safe, and she was armed and armored, but she was also wounded; did he want to take the chance? 

Insufferable.

She headed around the lake, slow but steady, until they reached the end of the path, then she struck out along a thin rivulet of ice leading toward the underside of a bridge. A small frozen waterfall awaited them, rocky and half-buried in snow. The kind of place a lone spy might sneak through, he thought, and made a note to send patrols out this way at night, assuming Leliana wasn’t making use of it.

“Walking helps me feel as if I’m accomplishing something,” Trevelyan said suddenly. “It’s what I loved most about being a guard instead of a templar. Lot of standing and kneeling and praying there, but blessed little moving.”

“Except during arms training,” he said.

“Precisely. I’d take extra shifts with the younger recruits whenever I could, and they let me, because, well. It was the one thing I was good at, by then.”

She walked up to the snowbank and laid a gauntleted hand on the rocks. “When I stand still, it feels as if the world is passing me by, and I’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up. As if I’m a stone in a river, and the water is washing over me and around me without a care for how it’s wearing me away.”

He’d never thought of it that way. Meditations had always been a peaceful time for him--well, not always, there was only so long one could recite the Chant before wandering or dozing off. But at the best of times, it had left him feeling renewed, uplifted, as if something empty inside him had been filled. He certainly had never felt as if his time was wasted or lost.

Why was she telling him all this?

“I know I can’t save them all, Rutherford,” she said. He looked up at her, and she was staring at him, but not through him as Cassandra described. No, her eyes were like firesteel ready to spark, and his were the tinder. She was furious, he realized, and that was a situation for which he was not prepared.

He said, “I didn’t think you--”

“I know what you think,” she said. “You think I’m a shortsighted fool, and you think I’m reckless, and you think I’m going to get myself killed before the Breach is sealed.” She let her hand drop to her sword. “But I am also, against my will, the figurehead of this Inquisition. Consider then: would you prefer a figurehead who cowers behind bodyguards and allows her people to die when she could save them? Or one who storms through corpse-infested waters and demon-summoning altars and marches right up to a bloody idiot with a giant axe, and puts her blade through his arrogant, Maker-forsaken face?”

“And what if it had been your face instead?” he spat, gesturing at her leg. “Then we’d have no figurehead, no mark--” No you, he thought, with more dismay than he expected.

“I value your expertise and your opinions, but you can take your ruthless pragmatism and shove it up your arse.” She paused, lips curling into a smirk. “Assuming there's any room, what with the enormous stick already in there.”

“You--”

“Either lock me up, or get out of my way,” she said. “I’m not one of your templars, and I’m not a mage to be guarded against herself. I don’t care if you approve of my choices. I spent four bloody years in Kirkwall watching things fall apart with no way to do anything about it, and now that the Maker has given me a chance to help, by Andraste’s flaming sword I will do it.”

Cullen scowled. “That’s what Meredith thought, too.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized that wasn’t what he meant. Because really, he’d been thinking of himself.

Trevelyan slid off her right gauntlet, tossing it to him as she stepped forward. He caught it reflexively, which distracted him long enough for her to punch him square in the temple, so hard he stumbled sideways and saw a handful of stars. He slid into a defensive stance, but he needn’t have bothered; she made no other move to strike him.

“I thought we might be friends someday,” she said quietly, shaking her hand out. “I thought, surely he’s changed, or he wouldn’t be here. Surely if anyone would understand, it would be him. Maker forgive me.” She reached down and grabbed a handful of snow, packing it into a ball.

He did understand. Maker’s breath. Hadn’t he led charge after charge against the demons pouring out of the rifts at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when he should have been ordering his soldiers to do it instead? He’d thought the world was ending, that the Maker was giving him a last chance to atone for a decade of mistakes. He’d thought dying would be a relief, if it were for a good cause. And then she’d saved him, saved them all, given them a reason to live instead.

If he were in her place, would he really be making different choices, or did his position give him the luxury of hindsight, the distance to judge her against some imagined ideal no one could ever hope to meet?

And if he were being completely honest with himself, was he perhaps a bit worried about her, personally, as much as what she meant for their cause?

Trevelyan held out the snowball to him and he stared at it blankly.

“For your face,” she said. “If your head feels like my knuckles, well.”

It wasn’t an apology; Cullen suspected she wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He had a flash of memory, of fighting with his brother when he was younger and giving him a toy afterwards to mend the bond. The Inquisition wasn’t quite a family, not yet, but the principle was the same.

He traded her gauntlet for the snow and held it to the place where a bruise was no doubt already forming, given how it throbbed. The thought of explaining it to Rylen later left a sour taste in his mouth.

Trevelyan shifted and winced, absently scratching at her bandages as she gazed past him, toward the lake.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked suddenly. “The report said you were injured, but not how.”

“Gift of the Mountain Father,” she muttered.

“You call that a gift?”

“It’s the name of the Hand of Korth’s weapon. Bull has it, if you want to take a look.” She sighed. “I’ve kept you from your duties long enough. And I expect Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine will want their turns scolding me as well, though I’m sure they’re pleased to have another rousing tale to add to my growing legend.”

She began walking toward Haven, looking more tired than she had when she arrived. As he watched, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, as if her position were a mantle and she were slipping it back on.

“Trevelyan,” he called after her.

She paused and turned, eyes hard again as he caught up with her.

“Rutherford?”

“Allow me to escort you to the healer. I’ll send word to Leliana and Josephine that you’ll meet with them later. Perhaps over dinner.”

She searched his eyes, as if unsure of his motives, then nodded. “I suppose it doesn’t do for the Herald to appear less than invincible. Lead on, then.”

Side by side they went, Cullen matching his stride to hers. As they reached the end of the lake, he resisted the urge to throw the snowball as far as he could, instead gently dropping it to the ground before continuing on their way.

#

When she was fully healed, Hope had intended to make straight for Horsemaster Dennet, she really had. She knew the horses were important, that they would make things easier for the Inquisition. And she could finally get Rutherford off her back, if only for a while, the insufferable assbiscuit. Shouldn’t have punched him, no matter how good it felt in the moment, but it wasn’t something she could take back, so horses would have to do.

But then she thought perhaps she could find the Grey Warden Sister Leliana had spoken of along the way, and achieve two goals at once.

She found the man at an old house along the shores of Lake Luthias, training three recruits who didn’t look old enough to shave. Warden Blackwall was a strong warrior, plainspoken and direct, rousing his conscripts to fight alongside him despite their apparent lack of experience. He also seemed possessed of an odd sort of melancholy, though Hope supposed that had to do with being a Grey Warden. They knew a little about saving the world in the face of impossible odds, and the burdens that came with the duty. Regardless, he joined the Inquisition at Hope’s request, and followed them back to the Upper Lake camp to regroup.

Then Solas wanted to find some elven artifact he thought would help strengthen the Veil, which of course would be useful if it kept more rifts from opening, so Hope agreed to that task. And it turned out the cave where the artifact was held put them on the road toward Redcliffe, where the rebel mages had invited them to parley…

And so it was that she found herself stumbling out of a Chantry, having closed a rift and met a Tevinter mage who wanted to stop his brethren from destroying the world. Handsome and rather full of himself, but his heart seemed in the right place, and Hope certainly wasn't about to let the Venatori cultists get a foothold in Ferelden, or unravel time, or whatever else they might be up to.

“We must send word to Haven immediately,” Hope said, once they’d relocated to a relatively private location within the town. “We cannot leave the situation here unresolved.”

“And what of the templars?” Cassandra asked. “We do not know what has happened to them. It could be worse than this.”

“It could be,” Hope agreed. “But is that a wager you’re willing to take?”

The Seeker sighed. “I suppose not.”

Solas leaned on his staff. “The magister’s invitation to the castle is clearly a trap.”

“Figured that out all on your own, did you?” Dorian asked sarcastically.

“Of course it is,” Hope said. “So we have to figure out a way to turn that to our advantage.”

“You know Nightingale and the Hero of Ferelden snuck into that castle during the Blight, right?” Varric asked. “I never did get the whole story out of her. Did you, Seeker?”

“I did not,” Cassandra said. “Much like your tales, hers often favor drama over truth.”

“The best lies tell the truth better than reality,” he said with a wink. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and turned away.

“We’ll ask her what she thinks,” Hope said. “Meanwhile, we need to stay in the area and keep an eye on things. Perhaps do what we can to win the mages to our cause under the Venatori’s noses.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said. “At this rate, you could get the whole Breach problem settled by Summerday.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have said that. Narrative irony dictates this is all going to get much worse now.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Anytime, Herald.”

#

When word came of Trevelyan’s intentions at Redcliffe, it took every ounce of self-control for Cullen not to march all his soldiers down there and either help her or drag her back to Haven like a wayward child. He understood why she was doing it, but leaving the templars to their fate went against his every instinct, felt like the final betrayal against the order he had given his every waking moment to for so long. He had left, yes, and stopped taking lyrium, but that didn’t mean he thought everything they stood for was wrong, that they didn’t have a vital role in keeping the world safe.

No, his failings were his own, and while he had no intention of joining the order again, he had nonetheless hoped they could become what they once were, what they were meant to be. He still couldn’t understand why the Lord Seeker had withdrawn them to Therinfal, had abandoned those who needed their protection. And now, with the choice to help the mages, Cullen might never know what had happened.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t get the memory of Hawke out of his head, standing in the Gallows and siding with the mages, eying him with a mixture of pity and defiance. Of her elven lover next to her, even though he’d been a slave to mages himself. And of the guard-captain, who should have been with her guards, but was instead standing by Hawke as she always had. That had shaken him most of all, he realized, for if Aveline was on their side, what did that mean for the justness of his cause?

He told himself it was as Leliana had said: Trevelyan focused on the problem in front of her, be it starving townsfolk or foolish mages. She must be bloody awful at chess, he thought, whatever she’d said about her mother’s prowess.

On Leliana’s advice, he sent soldiers with some of her scouts to Redcliffe, to spring their own trap using Trevelyan as bait. Riding hard with what horses they had, they should have reached her already. But time passed, and no word came, for good or ill.

After their initial failure to close the Breach, and the events at Val Royeaux, the Inquisition could ill afford another major incident.

And so it was that Cullen found himself walking to the Chantry, in the hopes of praying until some of his restlessness and head pain were alleviated. Before he could reach the building, however, he was waylaid by Leliana.

“The Herald returns,” she said. “And the mages come with her.”

A mixture of relief and dread washed over him at the news. “What took them so long to send a bloody raven?” he asked.

“Apparently their departure was under less than ideal circumstances. King Alistair was rather clear about Fiona and the mages not being welcome in Ferelden a moment longer.”

“The king was there?”

“He arrived after the Venatori plot was spoiled.” Leliana smiled. “Alistair always did have poor timing. I swear, he could find a bear trap with his foot faster than I could warn him to watch his step.”

Cullen found himself only half-listening as he considered the logistics of housing the entire company of rebel mages in Haven. Only so many of them would fit in the dungeon; Josephine would have to negotiate for additional tents, or he could pull some of his men from training and have them help fell trees to build temporary gaols somewhere far enough from town to be safe, close enough for supervision. There was also the question of ensuring there were always templars on hand to deal with the inevitable abominations--

“Commander?”

He shook his head to clear it and returned his attention to the spymaster. “Apologies, there is simply much to do to prepare.”

“Josephine believes some kind of feast is in order, to ensure everyone is in high spirits before we make our attempt to close the Breach at last.”

“A feast?” His brow furrowed. “For a bunch of prisoners?”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “Whatever gave you the idea they were prisoners? The Herald offered them partnership in our cause.”

“She what?!”

The sudden quiet around him, and the way the spymaster’s eyes moved suggested that they now had a rapt audience. Cullen sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Instead of better, his headache had gotten immeasurably worse.

“We will discuss this again when she returns,” Lelian said quietly. “In the meantime, do coordinate with Josie about how to make our new allies comfortable. And...” She laid a hand on his arm. “Do not forget to take a few minutes for yourself. The dark times are not so unbearable if you arm yourself with memories of the light.”

Cullen couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d distract himself from this debacle enough to relax. Allying with the rebel mages… what in the Void was Trevelyan thinking? What were they supposed to do after the Breach was sealed, to stop the war between the factions when they’d so clearly aligned themselves with one side?

He continued toward the Chantry after all, feeling as if he needed those prayers now more than ever.

#

The end was nigh. For Hope, anyway.

She made the rounds at the feast Josephine had organized, to ensure everyone in the Inquisition had one more good meal in them before they attempted to close the Breach again in the morning. Even she had to admit it was nice to eat something other than trail rations for a change, though she barely picked at the food between greeting the others and smiling and clasping arms with whoever offered. Soldiers mingled with mages and templars and Chantry sisters, still a bit like oil and water in some cases, but overall polite and dedicated to the Inquisition’s cause as allies. As the sun dipped below the peaks of the mountains surrounding them, torches and lanterns were lit, lending a somber glow to the faces of the people wandering up to and away from the well-laden tables in front of the Chantry.

One face, however, was notably absent.

“Where’s the commander?” Hope asked Leliana.

“In his tent, I expect,” the spymaster replied. “I have not seen him since the food was laid out.”

“Did he eat anything?”

“I am not sure. Why do you ask?”

Hope scowled. “He should eat. Bloody idiot.” She’d seen some soldiers like this before a battle, refusing proper nourishment, as if hunger would be an edge rather than an impediment. Or their nerves made them too nauseated to stomach anything. She’d have thought he would be past all that, but she’d thought a lot of things about that stubborn arse since she met him.

Still scowling, she scrounged up an extra plate and loaded it with food, not having the slightest idea what he preferred, but fairly certain it needed to be a lot given his size. Once she was worried about the stack falling over if she added more, she marched down the steps and out the front gate, toward his tent, which did indeed appear to have a light inside.

“Rutherford, may I come in?” she asked.

An exasperated sigh answered her. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’ve brought you food.”

There was a gentle clang of armor being placed on a stand, then the tent flap was lifted, revealing the man himself, wearing a loose linen shirt and a scowl to match hers.

Hope was so taken aback at seeing him out of his armor that she quite lost her tongue. A long-ago conversation with Cassandra about swooning flitted through her mind, and she hoped he couldn’t see her cheeks flush. 

You’re not wearing your armor either, Trevelyan, she scolded herself. And you’ve seen plenty like it before. Anyway, he’s a tit.

“Here,” she said, holding the plate out. “Don’t want you keeping anyone awake tonight with a rumbling stomach.”

“I don’t share a tent, Trevelyan,” he said, crossing his arms.

“And I’m sure the canvas is thick enough that it won’t carry,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll bet you can hear every snore from here to the trees.”

He snorted a laugh, as if he couldn’t help it. “You’re not wrong. I’ve had to get up and roll Rylen over to stop him.”

She lifted the plate again, waving it gently. “Come on,” she said. “Set a good example for your soldiers. Or if you like, it can be a favor to me, seeing as how you’ll be rid of me tomorrow one way or another.”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. Give it here.”

She handed him the food, and was just about to bid him a good night when her own traitorous stomach growled like an angry cat.

“Maker’s breath,” they said in unison. He cracked a smile and she flushed.

“I was going to eat,” Hope muttered crossly. “I wasn’t… I mean, I’ve been busy--”

“Come in, then,” the commander said. “You’ve certainly brought me enough for two people. It shouldn’t go to waste.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Then why did you bother coming out here at all?”

Why had she? For much the same reason she'd spent the whole afternoon talking with her companions, with the alchemist and the barkeep and even the quartermaster, with nearly every person she could find in Haven, mage and templar and soldier and sister and everyone else who made the Inquisition what it was.

“Because I needed to remind myself that you're not dead,” she said quietly. “Everyone was, except Leliana and a few of the others.”

Hope hadn't let herself think about it since the debriefing, where she'd focused on the important details: the demon army, the plot against Empress Celene, the mysterious Elder One behind it all. But now that she'd said it aloud, all the feelings she'd held at bay came crashing over her like a vicious wave on the Storm Coast. She swayed, staring blankly toward the torches flanking the gate, vision blurring with unshed tears.

The commander grabbed her arm and gently pulled her inside his tent, setting her down on a rough wooden chair in the corner. He didn't say anything, just let her sit there quietly as her memories taunted her, still sharp and painful as fresh wounds.

“Leliana wouldn't tell me what happened,” she said numbly. “The other Leliana, I mean. She said it didn't matter, if I was going to undo it all anyway. But I saw you. They'd hung you on a wall, like a, like a trophy. But they'd given you the red lyrium first. It was growing out of your arms, your head--”

Hope buried her face in her hands. She wouldn't cry. That future wouldn't come to pass. She had come back, and she wouldn't let it. But the notion that she really was so important, that losing her alone had condemned the entire world to that fate, was more than she could bear.

With a steadying breath, she looked up to see him watching her, a pitying expression in his eyes.

“Don't give me that face,” she said gruffly. “The last thing I need is you treating me like a wounded mabari.”

“Wounded mabari are not to be trifled with,” he said. “I once saw one take off a man’s hand in a single bite.”

“You never did.”

“That… is true. But it would have, if Jensen hadn't been quick enough.”

Hope chuckled, her throat still tight. “Did you ever run across that awful gang in Lowtown, called themselves the Dog Lords?”

He shook his head.

“Used to find them out at night sometimes. Then Hawke got wind of them and instead we’d find bodies.” She smiled ruefully. “We'd have to bring a hand cart for the mabari, they were so heavy. And getting them up and down stairs…”

“There were that many of them?”

“Hawke was always thorough about those things. Drove the guard-captain to distraction sometimes. She'd rather have arrested them and given them a proper trial, I think.”

“That does sound like Aveline,” he said. “She was--she is a very noble woman.”

“She would have let me stay,” Hope murmured. “I should have. I never should have left Kirkwall. I'd be there now, and someone else would be the Herald of Andraste.”

Rutherford knelt down in front of her. “It does no good to torment yourself over what might have been,” he said, his amber eyes searching hers. “You cannot change what you've done. You can only strive to do better. Cassandra told me that.”

She imagined he had a few regrets, then. As he should. No quantity of noble deeds he did now would bring back the people who had died because of him. But if his choices were to fall on his sword or work to unravel some of the knots he had helped tie, well, she knew what she'd have chosen. 

And it was not death.

“Tomorrow, we fix this,” she said. “Then you can get on with the Inquisition, and I can, I don’t know… Be dead, I suppose, or roam the land closing rifts and--” She groaned. “The horses. I swear, I'm not doing this to you on purpose.”

He laughed, a deep, dry sound that drew a smile from her as well. “They had better be excellent horses,” he said.

#

Everything had gone perfectly, until it had all gone wrong.

The mages powered up the mark. Trevelyan sealed the Breach in an explosive flash, leaving only the faintest green scar in the sky to indicate it had ever been there. Everyone returned to Haven to celebrate, and Cullen had to turn down a half dozen requests to dance.

Then the warning bells rang out, the bannerless army appeared, and he found out precisely what had happened to the templars.

Worse, he found out what had happened to that fool Samson after he left Kirkwall all those years ago.

“Give me a plan,” Trevelyan told him, watching the overwhelming force march toward Haven.

There was little they could do with as few soldiers as they had, and most of them still raw recruits besides. Their only hope was to use their trebuchets to their advantage: make the terrain impassible, bring the very mountains down on the templars before they could swarm the town. But to do that, they had to hold off the advance forces who were already upon them.

“For the Herald!” he shouted. “For your lives!”

And so they fought, wave after wave of foes, the red lyrium bursting from the templars’ skin like crystal tumors, their eyes empty of everything but the drive to kill. How many of these people had he known once? How many had he counted as his friends before they were turned into these monsters? How many might have been saved if Trevelyan had gone to them instead of the mages?

The final trebuchet launched its missile, a wide arc up toward the snow-covered cliffs, and with a great thunderous boom the rock and ice came crashing down over the army like the Maker’s own vengeance. For a few brief, blessed moments, the soldiers cheered their victory against seemingly impossible odds, and Cullen dared to hope they all might get out of this alive. He saw Trevelyan in the distance, standing at the trebuchet, and a surge of pride welled up inside him. She had asked him for a plan, and he had given it to her, and she had done it.

Then the dragon appeared, along with the surviving templars, and any hope of victory was snatched from their grasp.

Cullen ordered his soldiers to retreat to the Chantry, where most of the townsfolk were already hiding. He lost sight of Trevelyan at first, but she appeared with Harritt in tow, muttering something about his family’s hammer. Once inside the gates, he made the mistake of suggesting the villagers would need help and she vanished again, and he gave up on worrying about her because he had too many other blighted things to worry about, between corralling people toward safety and fighting the templars who breached the walls.

The scene inside the Chantry was worse than he could have imagined. So many wounded and dying, being tended by the mages and sisters alike as best they could. Mother Giselle spared him the briefest nod before continuing to give last rites to a man--a carpenter, Cullen remembered, but what was his name? Leliana penned message after message to send with the few ravens her scouts had managed to haul inside with them, and Josephine gave orders for people to pack as much as they could carry, even though there was nowhere for them to go.

Even Chancellor Roderick, the puffed-up prig, shouted encouragement to anyone who would listen. He was pale as the snow outside; Cullen realized the man had taken a vicious wound to the gut, and would bleed out soon if no one helped him.

“Get to a healer,” he spat as he passed. The chancellor didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

Rylen had set up off to one side, and was conferring with a few others. When Cullen arrived, he let out a sigh of relief.

“So, ser, I believe it’s fair to say the midden has hit the windmill,” Rylen said. “The Chantry has a back door, but we have no idea where it leads, and we’d still have to fight through the dragon and the red templars. Our other choice, as I see it, is to move everyone to the dungeon and set up two lines of defense.” He pointed at a crude plan of the building, where he’d marked the front door and the stairs to the dungeon.

“The dungeon is good,” Cullen replied. “But the dragon can simply bring the roof down on us, so I’m not sure there’s any point in keeping anyone up here.” He glanced around the room, thinking as quickly as possible. “We could try to create a distraction, to allow as many as possible to sneak out the back and get as far away as they can.”

Rylen nodded. “It would likely be suicide either way, but a better chance for those fleeing than simply waiting for death down below.”

Another thought occurred to him. “We have one other option,” he said quietly. He explained it to Rylen, who regarded him somberly.

“That would kill us all for sure,” Rylen said.

“But it would kill them, too.” A bitter laugh escaped Cullen’s lips. “Too bad we never did find Hawke. She’s dealt with enough dragons in her time for this to be a typical Tuesday for her.”

No sooner had he said as much than Trevelyan came rushing into the Chantry, with what he presumed were the last of the townsfolk preceding her. She spoke briefly to the strange boy who had arrived to warn them too late of the templars, and he helped Chancellor Roderick limp toward a chair as Cullen approached them.

When the boy suggested the Elder One only wanted her, the speed with which she offered herself took Cullen’s breath away. But of course she would. This was the same woman who’d dueled an Avvar for a half-dozen soldiers. At the same time, if some evil creature wanted her, he’d be damned if he let her be taken so easily. And the boy confirmed it wouldn’t do any good regardless.

So he told Trevelyan his plan, to load the trebuchets one last time and bring the whole mountain down on all of Haven. It felt strangely liberating. The situation was hopeless. This would be his last stand. He’d survived Kinloch Hold, a Qunari invasion and a mage rebellion only to die to an army led by Samson, a dragon and a mystery. But his death would be by his choice.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, her lips moving as if in prayer.

That was when the boy spoke up, and then the chancellor. They could escape along the summer pilgrimage path, if someone could keep the dragon and templars distracted long enough for them to get away before firing the trebuchets. Suddenly, in an instant, there was hope again.

But not, ironically, for Hope herself.

He watched the realization settle over her features, more firmly than it had before, but with a defiance now that her sacrifice might save lives instead of ending them. It hurt him in a way he couldn’t explain, and in that moment he wanted to apologize for giving her a hard time, for constantly questioning her judgment, for failing to offer so much as a single kind word the entire time he’d known her. He wanted to offer to go with her, to see that she didn’t die alone. She deserved better than that.

Instead, he said, “Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way.”

The smile she gave him said they both knew that was a lie, albeit a pretty one.

And then he was giving orders for everyone to prepare to leave, and she was asking a few of her companions to accompany her, to at least ensure the trebuchets were loaded properly before she launched them. They had no more words for each other, and unless the Maker himself intervened, they never would again.

It wasn’t summer yet, so there was still snow on the ground, making the overgrown path nearly impossible to find without Roderick’s guidance. Trevelyan and the soldiers must have been doing their work of keeping the red templars at bay, because none troubled the refugees as they moved as quickly as they could, deeper into the mountains. Soon they turned a bend, and Haven was spread out below them like the model of a town, far enough to be unreachable by arrow, but still close enough to see the fires consuming the buildings, the smoke rising into the sky. The dragon wheeled and dipped over the lake but for some reason did not attack. What was it waiting for?

As much as Cullen wanted to keep watching, they needed to get more height, more distance. Leliana and her scouts led the way while he and his remaining soldiers brought up the rear. They were no longer mage and templar, Chantry and laypeople; they were the Inquisition, moving with singular purpose, trying to outrun certain doom while their Herald fought for their lives.

Soon, Leliana appeared at his side, her expression grave. “I believe we are far enough away to be safe,” she said.

From where they stood, only the smoke from the fires of Haven could be seen, and the great white slopes of the mountains beyond.

“Send up the signal,” Cullen said.

Leliana slid her bow off her shoulder and nocked an arrow, which one of her scouts lit silently. She leaned back, aiming high into the air, and loosed it. The brilliant orange flame streaked up into the dark sky, and Cullen prayed to the Maker and Andraste that Trevelyan could see it.

His prayer was answered a dozen heartbeats later. He did not hear the stone from the trebuchet land, but the mountains fell in an avalanche that shook the ground even where they stood. By the time the quaking stopped, the smoke in the distance was no longer rising. 

Haven was gone.


	5. Sarabande

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope survives the destruction of Haven against all odds and finally gets those bloody horses. Cullen strikes up a friendship with Dorian over history and chess, and finds himself annoyingly influenced by some of the mage's off-handed comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pawn to c3. Bishop to a5.

When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me  
And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then  
In the pounding of my heart  
I hear the glory of creation.

\--Trials 1:7

 

Hope awoke from a dream of fire to a world of ice.

The parts of her that weren't numb sang with pain. Her head throbbed viciously. Every breath sent a lance of agony through her ribs. Her left knee ached and her ankle twinged. And, of course, that blighted mark on her hand crackled and spat like her own personal spark of lightning, racing up and down her arm in juddering waves.

She wasn't dead yet, and she couldn't tell whether it was a mercy or a punishment.

I should get up, she thought.

And do what? All around her, the frozen walls creaked and groaned, whether from the weight of the avalanche above or their own natural rhythms, she didn't know. Her breath misted the air, tongue thick and dry in her mouth. The barest turn of her head sent a wave of nausea through her, and showed her only more walls leading into darkness.

Haven't I done enough? she thought. She had stopped the army of red templars. She had closed the Breach. It would be so easy to sleep, to slip into the Fade once and for all.

Her father’s voice came to her then: My daughter would not lie there like a lump while there was still work to be done.

And her mother’s: The game is not over until the king is mated. Do not resign simply because you've lost a few pieces.

But was Hope a player, or just another pawn?

I need to tell the others what Corypheus said, she thought. About the mark, and the orb, and his plans. They need to know.

Slowly, gingerly, one dizzying motion at a time, Hope rose to her feet. She stood swaying for a few moments, then unceremoniously vomited into a snowbank, the additional anguish reminding her of how very many muscles were connected to the abdomen.

Andraste guide me, she thought, because I have no idea where I'm going and everything hurts.

One limping step at a time, she plodded farther into the cave, into green-tinged dimness, towards an unknown fate.

#

The moon was high in the western sky by the time Leliana’s scouts found the survivors a safe place to camp. Then they had to set up tents and distribute blankets and start fires--for warmth more than cooking--and tend the wounded, of course, and organize a guard rotation, so it was nearing midnight when Cullen finally had a moment to stare up at the stars and consider that Trevelyan was gone.

Well, so were a lot of other good people. And perhaps the whole mess wouldn't have happened if she'd gone to the templars in the first place. No, that was unworthy of him. Then they'd likely have fought an army of mages instead, and been just as overrun.

She'd be just as dead.

The Herald of Andraste, martyr to their cause. It was the kind of death to make a bard giddy. Standing up to the impossibly powerful villain alone, bringing a whole mountain down on his head… Varric would probably have another bestseller on his hands, if they ever made it back to civilization safely.

And she'd smiled at him before she went. How many times had Hawke smiled before a fight, in her cocky, cavalier way, as if the whole thing were a game and she were the only one who knew all the rules? But Trevelyan’s smile was different. Quiet. Kind. She'd smiled for him, not for herself.

Somehow, that discomfited Cullen more than Hawke ever had. Made him think of other smiles, older ones, shy and sweet until they were corrupted into… Enough. Now wasn't the time to reopen those wounds. He'd be certain to have new nightmares awaiting him as soon as he let himself sleep, anyway.

“Hey, Curly,” Varric said, walking up next to Cullen with his arms crossed. “We’re telling a few stories around the fire, about the Herald. You know, funny shit she did while we were wandering all over Ferelden. You should come listen, if you're not too busy practicing to be a statue over here.”

Cullen grimaced. If Trevelyan were alive, she might have told him such stories herself someday. Perhaps they'd have met years from now, older, wiser, in a more peaceful time, to share an ale and remember when the world almost ended.

So it was with soldiers. Fortunate were the few who lived to tell their own tales.

Before Cullen could answer, the strange boy who’d warned them of the approaching army appeared in front of him as if by magic.

Varric started. “Maker’s balls, kid, don't do that. You're sneakier than Isabela.”

The boy's eyes were hidden by the broad brim of his hat, but Cullen felt as if they were boring into him. He shivered and pulled his cloak closed.

“Tracking the trail for hours,” the boy said. “Shivering, shaking, bruised and broken. At least the wind has stopped howling.”

Cullen looked at Varric, who shrugged. “Fenris was always better at riddles,” he said. “Crime and smut are my oeuvres.”

“Fingers frozen, shoes like stones,” the boy continued, tapping his leg listlessly. “Cold campfires taunting, teasing. Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

Cullen’s stomach lurched. “Are you--what are you saying?”

“I'll get Solas,” Varric said. “He seems to have a knack for translating weird shit.” The dwarf started to walk away, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Now the boy turned slowly toward the trees downhill, in the distance, head cocked to one side. “Embers? Still warm. Close, but not enough. Stumbling, struggling. Wanted to die with a sword in my hand. Didn't even get the horses.”

Trevelyan? She was alive? How?

“Where is she?” Cullen demanded, hardly daring to believe.

The boy pointed, but Cullen couldn't see--wait. Was that a dark shape moving against the vast, shining white? A flicker of green answered.

“You there!” he shouted, pointing at one of his soldiers. “Get healers and a litter. Hurry!”

“So tired,” the boy said. “Sorry for failing.” He looked up at Cullen now, his eyes blue as a frozen lake. “Why does she think she failed?”

Because she's an idiot, Cullen thought. He took off at a run, as fast as he could, until he reached the thicker snow on the slope leading into the shallow valley below. Down he went, a carefully controlled slide, his shadow dancing in front of him as people with torches approached from behind to see what madness had overtaken their commander.

He was still far off when he saw her fall to her knees, her mark sputtering like a fire about to go out.

No you don't, he thought as he called to the others that she was here, she had survived, Maker’s breath it was impossible, and yet this blighted woman kept doing impossible things.

He reached her and stopped himself from picking her up like a child and carrying her back to camp. She was injured, clearly, and he might make it worse if he wasn't careful. Still, he took off his cloak and gently wrapped it around her, barely noticing the rush of cold against his back. The scar on her face was taut with pain, and wherever her helm was, it likely had a nasty dent given the blood on her forehead.

“Sorry,” she whispered, staring at the ground like a guilty child.

“Oh, be quiet, you,” Cullen said. And, for a change, she was.

#

Hope knew she must have slept because of the ways the conversations around her shifted abruptly, their beginnings occurring mid-sentence and their ends lost entirely. One moment she was kneeling in the snow, the next she was lying on a litter being dragged slowly uphill, and then she was on a cot with various voices drifting around her, hands stroking and prodding her, sometimes painfully.

“Drink this,” they would say. “Watch my finger. Can you feel this? Does this hurt?”

The answer was usually yes.

Her armor was removed at some point, and her gambeson and underclothes, so that she found herself wearing simple linens underneath enough blankets to smother a fire. She went from hot to cold and back again more than once, alternately sweating like a horse and shivering so hard her jaw locked up. Her pain came and went, like lightning in a storm, until finally it was gone entirely, leaving only a deep weariness that she knew would soon pass as well.

There were two constants: first, the soothing voice of Mother Giselle at her side, and second, the vicious arguing of the Inquisition’s leaders just outside the thin wall of her tent.

They've been at it for hours, Hope thought, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until Mother Giselle answered her, consoled her, questioned her. Made her see once again that this battle was bigger than Hope herself.

And then the woman began to sing.

Hope had heard the hymn many times before. As a child when her parents took her to the Chantry for services. As a sullen teenager among templars trying to teach her about faith and duty. As a lost soul in a city reeling from death and destruction on the eve of war. It was beautiful, yes, powerful and defiant and hopeful.

But now, it seemed to rise like a tide that threatened to sweep her away into an ocean more vast than she could imagine. One voice after another joined the song, the voices of those who had fled into darkness and even now could not be sure where they would go. And yet, they had something that an army hadn't taken from them, nor a dragon, nor a self-proclaimed god.

They had hope. And, well, Hope.

She stood in the firelight, marveling at the spectacle even as a blade of fear twisted in her gut. If she hadn't been enough of a symbol before… But she was just a person, and a mediocre one at that. All she could do was hit things with a sword and close rifts, despite her mother’s desperate lessons in diplomacy. How could she possibly live up to this? 

The answer to that question came as the song ended and the survivors turned to whatever comforts might carry them through the rest of the chill night. It came in the form of an elven apostate with the promise of safety, and Hope clung to his words like a drowning sailor in a storm.

#

While Cullen expected not a few of the refugees to take their chances and flee to one of the towns along Lake Calenhad, he was surprised to find that instead their numbers swelled as they made their way toward their mystery destination. Their meager supplies, which they supplemented through hunting and gathering at first, were soon bolstered thanks to Leliana and Josephine, each with uncanny abilities to find merchants and traders and even generous donors willing to help the Herald of Andraste after her miraculous victory.

And it would all be for naught if Trevelyan were leading them deep into the Frostback Mountains for nothing.

She seemed to trust Solas, who Cullen knew was the one who had recommended the route in the first place. She’d understood why the elf didn’t want to take credit, and the benefit of her being the figurehead blazing the trail, but she hadn’t kept it a secret when Leliana asked. Cullen respected that; if Trevelyan truly wanted to make a name for herself as a religious icon, she could as easily have pretended the Maker was guiding her.

Cullen could certainly think of others who had believed themselves guided by providence, and rarely had it led to a happy end for any involved.

Still, the promise of an empty place waiting for them to fill it felt like an impossible fantasy. If the elf were truly guided by visions from the Fade, who was to say there would be anything left but a pile of rubble?

“You have the look of a man whose brain teems with weighty thoughts,” a voice said from behind him. The Tevinter magister, Dorian, somehow immaculately groomed even though they’d been walking for hours.

“Simple logistics, I assure you,” Cullen replied.

“The logistics of what to do with all these people, if the Herald leads us on a merry chase and we find only our own tails, I imagine.”

Cullen smirked despite himself. “I take it you are not among her ardent followers.”

“She is a perfectly handsome woman who means well, and an excellent swordswoman, but I don’t expect her ashes to heal anyone, no.”

Handsome? Cullen wasn’t sure about that. He watched her stop briefly to consult with Solas, considering her profile until she disappeared through a pass. Her dark hair had grown to brush her cheeks and neck since they first met, he noticed. Still, he couldn’t have said what color her eyes were if his life depended on it.

“Who knows,” Cullen found himself saying. “The Maker works in mysterious ways. She has certainly done the impossible more times than I’ve given her credit for.”

Dorian grinned. “Either that or she has astonishing luck. But I’d rather she not be burnt at the stake for us to find out about the ashes business.”

Cullen chuckled. “I suppose not.” That made him think of Haven again, the ashes of the town buried under an avalanche of snow, and he sobered quickly. Before he could reply, Trevelyan reappeared, looking for all the world as if she might burst into tears. He surged forward as quickly as he could through the snow, his heart in his throat.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Skyhold,” she replied. Without warning, she grabbed one of his vambraces and pulled him toward the pass, where Solas was standing with an extremely satisfied expression.

As soon as he saw it, Cullen’s mouth fell open. It was a fortress. An enormous, defensively situated fortress in the middle of the bloody mountains. How had no one found this place before?

“Maker’s breath,” he said, and he realized Trevelyan had said it at the same time. Also, she was still holding his arm.

“I think you will find this suits your needs,” Solas said.

“Solas,” Trevelyan said, her voice husky. “I could kiss you right now.”

Dorian appeared in time to hear that comment, and smirked. “I don’t think he’s your type, Herald,” the mage said. “Perhaps you could try the Commander instead.”

She looked up at Cullen, eyes wide and startled, and she dropped his arm as if it burned her. Perhaps it had burned him instead, because he felt quite warm despite the snow.

Leliana found them then, and Scout Harding, and Trevelyan had to continue on her way so they could reach the keep before nightfall. But Cullen couldn’t get her expression out of his mind, because it hadn’t been disgusted or dismayed--it had simply been surprised. And he didn’t know what to make of that at all.

He did know one thing, however: if the Maker had seen fit to give them a new start, he was going to do everything he could to ensure it was not a wasted gift.

#

Inquisitor.

Hope rolled the title around in her mind, as if it were a grain of sand, and she an oyster that might turn it into a pearl. She’d been told she earned it, but it felt like yet another layer of legend being painted on top of her already overly-gilded facade.

Take the power you are given, her mother would say. Use it wisely.

No, her father would say. Use it justly.

She hardly knew where to begin. Everyone she spoke to congratulated her, warned her, wanted things from her that she in turn wanted so badly to deliver. They had worked so hard in the past months to build what little they had, only to have it torn away from them. And yet, here they were, with a new place to make their home, stronger and better than the first if they could manage.

Hope would be sure they could manage. Turn promises into action, as Leliana had said. Get to the bottom of who Corypheus was and what he wanted, and ensure that he did not succeed in accomplishing the plans that led to the horrifying future Hope and Dorian had seen in Redcliffe.

And now that they were even farther from civilization than before, the first thing she would do was get those bloody horses.

Varric’s offer to introduce her to an old friend who might know more about their foe was welcome, though the idea of a private meeting left her unsettled. Suspicious, even, especially given Leliana’s comment. Hope had a feeling she knew what it meant, and shared the spymaster’s sentiments about how Cassandra would feel.

The matter of Empress Celine being in danger was also at the front of everyone’s mind. Josephine was attempting to get them invited to the peace negotiations that would be held at the Winter Palace in a few months’ time, but as of yet they didn’t have sufficient connections and influence to be noticed by the ruler of all Orlais. Even if they were trying to stop her from being assassinated.

Josephine had also asked again that Hope write to her family. She had never received a response the first time; she didn’t doubt that they were relieved she was alive, but she knew her mother well enough to expect a certain amount of hesitation to align themselves with a fledgling, possibly heretical organization. The Trevelyans were an old house, a pious house, with enough templars and Chantry sisters in its history to make a shift in alliances unlikely.

Maybe soon, the Inquisition would prove itself worthy of such support. Hope would see to that as well. Perhaps the title could be added to her epitaph when the time came.

Hope looked around at the debris still littering the great hall, larger than the chantry at Haven, larger even than the hall in her family’s ancestral home in Ostwick. It must have been a grand place when it was built, for it to inspire a kind of awe in her even in its current condition. Outside, workers were engaged in cleanup and what repairs they could do while waiting for more supplies to arrive from wherever they could be found.

Rutherford had established his temporary command center near the infirmary, and was busily sifting through reports and handing out orders to his soldiers. He wore a near-permanent scowl, his brow furrowed; he’d give himself a headache if he wasn’t careful. Well, that was none of her business.

They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words since he found her in the snow. She only knew it was him because Varric had told her; she’d been too far gone to remember much of anything. She had tried to thank him later, but every time she began they were interrupted, and so she kept waiting for a better time. None was going to come, she expected, given how busy he was and how she’d be leaving for the Hinterlands again soon.

Get it over with, she told herself. You’re the Inquisitor now. You can monopolize him for a few moments.

And so she did, and it went… confusingly.

He was bitter about the loss of Haven, and when she asked if he ever slept, he brushed off the question as if he hadn’t heard it. Guard rotations were established, repairs to Skyhold were underway, and he expected much could be done inside of a week. He even complimented her effect on morale, and laughed when she suggested he was perhaps being more courteous than genuine.

Hope had to admit, he really was quite good at his job. It made her wonder anew what had happened in Kirkwall, how things could have gone so wrong--but then, perhaps that was the problem: he had been very good at his job there, too, only his job had been tormenting mages instead of running an army. And yet, as she watched him speak, she found it hard to reconcile her former mental picture of the man with the one who stood before her. Had he changed, truly? She hadn't thought such a thing possible.

She found herself telling him she was glad he had survived, and he, gently, said the same.

His eyes are like honey, she thought. I haven’t had honey since Ostwick. So busy eating trail rations and stew, and if I never see another turnip in my life it will be too soon. And why would anyone in their right mind pickle an egg? Maker’s ass, I’m still staring at him.

Hope turned to leave and he called after her, swearing with a quiet intensity that he would never let the events at Haven happen again. Except he seemed to mean that he wouldn’t let her stay behind again the way she had. As if he cared about her personally, and not the Herald of Andraste turned Inquisitor.

Hope all but ran off after that, because she needed her brain to catch up with whatever facial expressions she might be making before she looked a fool.

What was that? she wondered. No, there was nothing to wonder. It was nothing. She was tired, he was tired, and perhaps after Haven they didn’t think quite so poorly of each other. He'd seemed guilty there as well, when she'd run off to deal with Corypheus. That was all.

Certainly he had a long enough history of mistakes he had failed to avoid making. She was yet another such one to add to the list.

“Hey, Your Ladybits!” Sera shouted down the stairs as Hope ascended. “Some of Bull’s people just showed up with ale, yeah? Hurry up before it’s all drunk!”

Hope supposed one glass of ale wouldn’t hurt. She was the Inquisitor, not a Chantry sister, after all. With a half-grin, she climbed faster, glad there was something she could look forward to on such a thoroughly overwhelming day.

It might even make her meeting with Varric’s “old friend” a little easier.

#

The days blurred together as Cullen moved from one problem to another, his perpetual companion a headache that waxed and waned but never truly seemed to leave. Some days he was sick enough he couldn’t manage more than clear broth, and some days he couldn’t manage anything at all. That was when Cassandra and Rylen subtly took over his duties so he could “survey the walls,” which mostly consisted of walking around outside Skyhold, vomiting and occasionally lying down in a snowbank to soothe his head.

More than anything, it felt like he’d been hollowed out and left empty, like an abandoned fox den waiting to collapse. Or perhaps he was more like a rotted tree not even fit for firewood, ruined to the core but still standing as if it were alive.

I should resign, he thought more than once. I cannot do this. No, I should start taking lyrium again. I could perform my duties properly if I were taking it. But I am not a templar anymore, and I refuse to be one again. If I take lyrium when I’m not a templar, then what does that say about me? About my rank and privilege compared to those who cannot make that choice due to their circumstances? If they cannot take it, neither should I.

That, naturally, led him to think about Samson, the vile traitor. Hadn’t he seen what the red lyrium did to Meredith? And yet he’d apparently allied with this Corypheus and consigned all the templars to an even worse fate.

It didn’t help that Varric had brought Hawke to Skyhold. 

Cullen had seen her quickly, in passing, as she left to meet her Grey Warden contact in Crestwood. He hadn’t exactly expected her to come by his office and drink to old times, but he had hoped--well, it didn’t matter what he hoped. He deserved whatever contempt she held him in.

He began to have new nightmares about Meredith. The old ones persisted, ones in which he watched a version of himself follow her vile instructions over and over, torturing and killing and doing all the unfathomably evil things he knew other templars had done under her orders, even if he himself hadn’t. But now, he dreamed of her statue awakening and stalking him through the endless winding streets of Kirkwall, lined with mages marked with the dreaded sunburst on their foreheads, their robes red as blood. Sometimes the other statues came with her, the ones she had somehow used to fight Hawke and her companions in the end. Once, the Twins themselves rose out of the harbor dragging their chains behind them, and bound Cullen so tightly that he awoke gasping for breath.

Once, Meredith smiled as she drove her cursed sword into Trevelyan’s back, and instead of dying, the Inquisitor sprouted red lyrium from every orifice, then shambled forward to embrace him in horrible silence.

The next day, Josephine asked him if he were well, and he insisted he was, even as he knew he was grimacing from pain. Shortly thereafter, an absurdly regular supply of hot drinks and food began to appear, first at his command post, then in the room he staked out as his office and private quarters. It was on the outer wall just above the main gate, with windows to let him see the bridge into the fortress, and was easy to access from the bailey and the keep. He was even able to reach their burgeoning library with little trouble, though he had no time to do more than read the titles of the books, much as he longed to immerse himself in some of them.

“See anything you like, Commander?” Dorian asked him one day, leaning against a bookshelf with a cocky smile. Cullen didn’t know how the man could go around with so much skin showing in this cold, especially considering how warm Tevinter was reputed to be.

“We seem to have amassed a fair collection of Sister Petrine’s writings,” Cullen replied.

“Ah, the Chantry scholar,” Dorian said dismissively. “She’s almost as bad as Genitivi.”

“What do you have against Genitivi?”

“Don’t get me started. Have you read his assessment of the Imperium? ‘Dilapidated old slattern’ indeed. He's right, of course, but that's no excuse.”

Cullen chuckled, idly scanning the book spines until one caught his eye. He slid the slim volume off the shelf and made a soft hmm of appreciation.

“You play chess, Commander?” Dorian asked, reading the title over Cullen’s shoulder.

“I do.” He flipped through the pages, recognizing a few of the more famous Orlesian games. Perhaps he’d borrow this one, to help relax him before bed…

“Well then, I challenge you to a match. I haven’t played a worthy opponent in ages.” The gleam in Dorian’s eye was matched only by the shine of his waxed mustache.

Cullen hesitated. He didn’t really have time; but then again, perhaps it would take his mind off his headaches and nausea. Cassandra had suggested that immersing himself in work could be making things worse, so a break might help. If he scheduled it to coincide with a meal--

“Overwhelmed by my charm and confidence?” Dorian asked. “Don’t concern yourself too much, I do tend to have that effect on people. I shall be a gracious winner, I assure you.”

“You presume you’re going to win,” Cullen said with a smirk.

“Oh, I’ll be making a bet with Varric on it as soon as you leave,” Dorian said. “Shall we meet, say, over dinner tonight?”

“You’re on.” 

Cullen returned to his room, savoring the thought of wiping the smug grin off the mage’s face. It was too like his sister’s, especially the time she trounced him in four moves.

He was so lost in his memories and daydreams that he barely registered a strange sound in the distance, soft at first, but growing louder and louder until it finally broke through his reverie. One particular noise rang out and echoed, drawing him to the window: the rapid clatter of a horse’s hooves.

A rider galloped across the bridge, on a lovely brown horse--Cullen thought it was a bay, but he’d never been especially well-versed in the breed and color distinctions. Whoever it was, they seemed to know what they were doing. They slowed the creature to a walk as they approached the gate, allowing it to rear with a defiant whinny as the soldiers on guard duty hailed them.

“Who goes there?” one of his guards shouted. With a flourish, the rider removed their helm.

It was Trevelyan, grinning like a madwoman.

“Open the portcullis!” she shouted back. “I’ve got a score of horses coming in the next day and we need to figure out where to put them!”

Maker’s breath, she had done it. She’d almost died first--more than once--but she’d finally done it. He marched to the courtyard, coming down the stairs just in time to see her dismount and lead her horse toward the stables, handing it off to a groom with a gentle pat on the nose and stroke of the flank.

“Inquisitor,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s this I hear about horses?”

“Commander,” she replied, still grinning. “I bring you not only a herd of Fereldan Forders, but Horsemaster Dennet himself to care for them.”

“You what? How did you manage that?”

Trevelyan laughed. “It was Lady Vivienne, actually. She told him we’d get an Orlesian chevalier for our horsemaster, and Dennet was so offended he insisted on coming himself.”

“How very Fereldan of him,” Cullen said dryly.

“I spoke to him as we traveled,” she continued, watching the groom rub down her mount. “He seems to have forgotten more about horses than I ever knew, and my family is--” Her smile faded into a wistful expression.

“Your family is?” Cullen repeated.

“Oh, um. That is, the Trevelyans have a horse on the coat of arms for a reason.”

Something about her phrasing gave him pause, but she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. I should get back to work, Cullen thought, but he was strangely loathe to leave her there in an apparently soured mood.

“Would you care to see some of the repairs we’ve made while you were away?” he asked.

“You have made astonishing progress in so little time,” she said, gazing around the courtyard at the scaffolding hugging several of the walls. “But I’m sure you’re quite busy and I don’t want to keep you.”

Her tone was carefully neutral, so he wasn’t sure whether it masked a desire to evade him or genuine concern for his time. And she wasn’t wrong; he did have no end of things to do.

“Allow me to at least escort you to Ambassador Montilyet,” he said. “She was quite eager to show you your new quarters.”

“I have quarters now? For myself?”

He smirked. “We can’t very well have the Inquisitor sleeping in a tent in the courtyard, or in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers.”

“I suppose not.” 

She sounded almost disappointed. Did the daft woman want to sleep in a tent? Or barracks? She’d had her own room in Haven, but now that he thought of it, she’d spent most of her time prowling the village and surrounding mountains. She’d mentioned something about that once, about actually enjoying her work as a guard in Kirkwall because of all the walking. Perhaps she also missed the camaraderie that came from sleeping in the same place as her fellow guards.

“We all have our own quarters,” Cullen added, wondering if it might help. “Josephine sleeps in her office, which you've seen. Leliana is at the top of the tower there. I’m over there above the gate.”

“I’m sure I’ll get it all straight in time. Though I won’t be here long; we must make for Crestwood soon.”

To meet with Hawke. Of course. Now it was his turn to control his tone.

Cullen gestured at the keep. “Shall we, then? Josephine oversaw the decorations herself.”

“Decorations?” Trevelyan seemed to stifle a groan. “As long as it has a hearth, I suppose I’ll manage.”

Cullen thought of the hole still in his roof and swallowed. At least it hadn’t snowed yet.

“I believe our lady ambassador has excellent taste,” he said diplomatically. “With a bit more time, she might even impress the Orlesians.”

Trevelyan laughed at that, for which he was glad, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why.

#

After an excited Josephine showed Hope to her exceedingly large room with not one, but two balconies overlooking the mountains, she scheduled a meeting at the war table for that afternoon.

Hope wandered off to see the rest of what Skyhold had to offer. The fortress seemed to be larger than the entire village of Haven, and while some of its inner and outer walls were crumbling from age, most of them were surprisingly sturdy. Engineers and masons worked to shore up and repair what they could, while soldiers patrolled the walls between towers, and messengers ran back and forth with their deliveries.

Many of those who had previously held important roles in the Inquisition had, to her surprise, been replaced, and so she met all the newcomers and wished them well. They’d also acquired new merchants as well as a tavern embarrassingly named the Herald’s Rest, where the mood was relatively somber despite--or perhaps because of--Maryden the bard performing the many excellent songs in her repertoire. Hope considered stopping for a pint, but decided she was too restless to sit and drink.

Finding Cassandra out in the practice yard, Hope thought a few rounds with a training dummy would be a perfect way to loosen up. At some point The Iron Bull joined them, and Hope found herself getting distracted by the way he and Krem shouted at each other as they sparred.

“Stop trying to block my hammer with your shield,” Bull bellowed. “Dodge or deflect, unless you like getting knocked on your ass.”

“Aw, Chief, the sky looks nice when I’m lying down,” Krem retorted.

“Save the lying down for the bedroom. Again!”

Hope rested her sword on her shoulder. “You’re not going for his blind side, Krem?”

Krem snorted. “People always go for that side. He expects it. Might as well hit myself with the hammer and get it over with.”

“You might as well do that anyway, the way you’re fighting today,” Bull said. “Maybe I should let the Boss here take over so I can do something less pointless. Like polish my horns.”

“Your horns certainly have points,” Hope said.

Krem groaned. “Don’t get him started on the bad puns. We’ll be here all day.”

“I really could use a sparring partner,” Hope continued. “I’d ask Cassandra, but we’re a bit too familiar with each other’s habits.”

Bull rested his hammer on the ground. “Take it easy on him, Boss,” he said. “He's no good to me in pieces.”

“Hey,” Krem said. “You never go easy on me.”

“Don't I?” Bull grinned.

Hope retrieved her shield and squared off against Krem, watching the man’s footwork as he circled her. He'd trained in Tevinter originally, she knew, which might give her some insight into fighting the Venatori more effectively.

Krem moved quickly, feinting toward her head and swinging around to strike her sword arm. She deflected with the edge of her shield, spinning to level her own blow at his midsection, which he evaded with a slight jump backward.

Back and forth they went, trading hits and parries until sweat soaked her undershirt. He was faster than her, but she was stronger, and judging by his labored breathing she had more stamina as well. If this were a true fight, she'd keep going, expecting to outlast him, but this wasn't meant to end in a win or loss for either of them.

Hope eventually retreated and saluted with her sword. “Thank you, Krem,” she said. “I expect I'll sleep well tonight, hopefully after a warm bath.”

Krem mimicked her salute. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Might want to take a bow while you're at it.”

They'd apparently attracted a small crowd while they sparred, which began to disperse as its members realized the show was over. One person lingered: Rutherford, who approached her and cleared his throat.

“Inquisitor, it's time for our meeting,” he said.

The war table. She’d almost forgotten. “Maker’s balls,” she muttered darkly. “I probably smell like a horse rolled in shit.”

Rutherford coughed, and Hope realized she’d offended his delicate templar sensibilities.

“Er, sorry,” Hope mumbled. “Slip of the tongue. Won’t happen again.”

“I have heard worse, Inquisitor,” he said, and she glanced at him sideways to see the faintest of smiles. “Just not from you.”

They began to walk toward the great hall, Hope fighting her embarrassment.

“My mother would have had a fit if she heard,” Hope said. “Took her years to beat the city out of me. I suppose traipsing around with Varric and Sera has brought it all back.”

“As long as you don’t say it to an Orlesian noble, I daresay you’ll be fine.”

“I’ve certainly been tempted a few times already. You have to be more creative with Orlesians, or they assume you’re a fool.”

“Creative?”

“Yes, you know, backhanded compliments and the like.” She adopted a vacant smile and a sunny tone. “‘Ah, messere, what fine shoes. I presume Comte de Launcet copied yours rather than the reverse?’ That kind of nonsense.”

To her surprise, Rutherford chuckled. “That does sound like something Leliana would say.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign. She’s far better at it than I am. My mother despaired of my skills at subtlety so she made me practice asking open-ended questions and feigning interest instead.” She paused. “Not that I make a habit of feigning interest. Most people are more interesting than you’d think.”

“I suppose so.”

Maker’s breath, Hope, you’re rambling, she thought. Now who’s the one feigning interest?

They walked past Varric’s haven by the hearth, Hope nodding to the dwarf as they went. She’d had to practically pull Cassandra off him before she left for the Hinterlands, and so far as she knew, the Seeker still hadn’t spoken a word to him since.

“Hey, Curly,” Varric called after them. “I’ve got a sovereign says you beat Dorian at chess later. Don’t let me down.”

Cullen raised a hand in acknowledgement and kept walking toward Josephine’s office.

“A chess date, Commander?” Hope asked. “I didn’t know you played.” Or had any interest in cultivating a friendship with Dorian, for that matter. Not that she objected--quite the contrary. The mage seemed to have few enough friends in the Inquisition, despite all that he had done so far. Old prejudices died hard.

“Date? It’s not--that is, I do quite enjoy playing chess, but--” 

“There you two are,” Leliana said as they entered. “I was about to send a scout to find you.”

“We have much to discuss,” Josephine added, rising from her seat behind her desk and briskly collecting her papers and tablet.

Hope wondered what the rest of Rutherford’s fumbling answer would have been, because the man looked strangely embarrassed. She couldn’t imagine why; perhaps he wasn’t very good at chess. Maybe she would drop by their little game later to see whether Varric would win or lose that bet.

#

Cullen pressed a handful of snow to the back of his neck and closed his eyes, willing either his head or his stomach to ease their torment long enough for him to return to work. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting outside Skyhold, but it was long enough that the shadows had measurably lengthened and the chill in the air had sharpened. Someone would come looking for him soon if he didn’t go back to his office--Cassandra, or Rylen, stomping over in the snow and giving him pitying looks as they quietly but firmly urged him to come inside and at least try to drink his tea. Josephine had switched it to something that required a spoonful of honey to render it palatable, but it did help. Mostly.

In the distance, Horsemaster Dennet and the stablehands had begun rounding up the horses for the evening. Cullen envied the creatures their measure of freedom, the way they could run about every day and then be coddled and fed every night. It reminded him a bit of being a templar: living with his fellows, eating and sleeping together, taking solace in each other’s company. And, ultimately, being guided by a leader who would hopefully use them well.

But he didn’t imagine the horses had witnessed half of what he had, and certainly hadn’t done any of the terrible things he had done. He deserved no part of their comfort, as he well knew.

Seeing them and remembering Kirkwall--and before--led him to think of Trevelyan, who had left to meet Hawke in Crestwood some days earlier. Had it been a week? Two? It was so easy to lose track of time. She had taken Varric with her, and Lady Vivienne, and Blackwall since they were going to meet a Grey Warden. Reports from Scout Harding suggested the situation there was dire, with their blighted dead rising from a rift at the lake to torment the remaining townsfolk, so he wouldn’t be surprised if Hawke were cooling her heels for some time while the Inquisitor did her usual “solve the problem in front of her” routine.

Cullen tossed aside the snow in his hand that was rapidly becoming wet slush, and was considering whether to reach for more when someone cleared their throat nearby. Dorian, who had deigned to procure a cloak and a shirt that covered more than one arm, his staff slung across his back as if he expected trouble. Well, Cullen wore his sword everywhere, so who was he to judge.

“Commander,” Dorian said jovially. “Fancy meeting you out here. Did you get bored of hearing mages gossip about you as well, and decide some fresh air would be just the thing to keep you from setting someone’s trousers on fire?”

Cullen sighed. “I’ve no doubt they talk about me, but never within earshot.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “I assume you’ve heard of my reputation.”

“And I assume you’ve heard of mine. I find a good wine dulls the sting of perpetual regret, though it sometimes takes a few bottles to achieve the full effect.”

That explained Josephine’s comment the other day about the overhead at the tavern, Cullen thought. Though he imagined Dorian wasn’t the only person drowning their sorrows, if the mage wasn’t exaggerating. He himself rarely had anything stronger than ale, and even that sometimes did more harm than good to his symptoms.

“I should leave you to your walk,” Cullen said, standing carefully so as not to upset his relatively calm stomach. He was rewarded instead with the blood rushing out of his head, his vision going black for a moment before returning with sparkling edges. If Dorian noticed anything, he didn’t say, and he was looking toward the bridge to the main gate when Cullen could finally see again.

“I was going to ask if you wanted a rematch instead,” Dorian said. “But it appears the Inquisitor has returned, so I expect you’ll be quite occupied.”

“Has she?” Cullen asked, wondering whether Hawke was with her. He hadn't been able to see her when she first came to Skyhold, hadn’t spoken to the Champion since before she disappeared, to warn her that the Chantry was investigating everything that had happened. There were things he hadn’t told her at the time, things he hadn’t been ready to tell her, and perhaps it was too late now. Still, he wanted to try.

He realized Dorian was studying him with a curious expression. “No love lost between you and our fearless leader, is there?” the mage asked. 

“What makes you say that?”

“No need to sound defensive, Commander, I was simply making an observation. She spends far more time with our lady ambassador and Sister Leliana, who do not seem to adopt your stony expression when they speak with her.”

Cullen rubbed his neck with one hand. “We have not always agreed on… a number of things, I suppose.” Though if he were entirely honest, his estimation of her had risen after her actions at Haven. Not just her heroic self-sacrifice, but the fact that she had personally saved so many of the townsfolk from the invading force. Her decisions at the war table did not always align with his recommendations, but she always listened to him and explained why she chose how she did, and he respected that. 

He had watched her train with one of the Chargers the other day as well, and had to admit that her skill with the sword was impressive. More powerful than graceful, her stance firmly rooted and her steps precise rather than light and quick. Hawke had always fought with a smile, but Trevelyan had an intensity--

“Now that is a more familiar expression,” Dorian said, interrupting his thoughts. “Perhaps I have misjudged the situation entirely.”

“Misjudged? What?”

“You got the same look about you the last time we played chess. Pensive, one might say, but with a hint of a smile. Taking in the board before you make your move.” Dorian grinned. “What moves are you planning to make on the Inquisitor, hmm? I daresay she could use them.”

Cullen’s jaw dropped at the man’s suggestive tone. “I--what? I don’t… that is, I have no plans--”

“Going to be spontaneous about it, then. Charming. Do tell me how it goes.” He began walking toward the gates, and it took Cullen a few moments to gather his wits and follow.

“Dorian, I think you misunderstand entirely,” Cullen said. “I have no such intentions whatsoever.”

“Oh, of course, you were a templar. Still under vows of celibacy and all that, I presume?”

“Vows of--I took no such vows.” He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “Maker’s breath, how did we even start talking about this.”

“Far be it from me to make you uncomfortable, Commander.” Dorian cast a glance over his shoulder that seemed to suggest otherwise. “If you find some time tomorrow, however, perhaps we might have that rematch? I swore to Varric I’d earn back my poor lost sovereign.”

“I’ll see what I can manage,” Cullen said. “Though you might consider making smaller wagers.”

Dorian chuckled. “You expect me to lose again? Absolutely not. I underestimated you before, but this time will be different.”

“I highly doubt that.” Cullen could swear he had caught Dorian cheating, but he hadn’t said anything at the time, and he’d still managed to win. The mage lacked strategy past a certain point, as if he studied openings but not entire games.

Dorian continued to taunt him as they climbed, but strangely, Cullen found himself wondering how skilled Trevelyan was at chess, and remembering a long-ago time when he’d thought to invite her to play. But perhaps she would get the wrong idea? If Dorian could be so confused--he certainly didn’t want to mislead her, make their relationship even more awkward. And there was no chance of her ever harboring any sort of… Was there? 

Why was he even thinking about it?

They reached the main gate and Cullen made for the stairs to his office. Trevelyan was at the stables, he noticed, speaking to Blackwall. He paused on the bottom step to watch her, still wearing her armor, one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other cradling her helm against her hip. Her hair was limp with sweat, her posture straight as a soldier’s. Dorian had called her handsome once, and he supposed she was, in a way. Not delicately pretty like Leliana, or elegant and beautiful like Josephine or Lady Vivienne--no, hard and strong like Cassandra, as if she might have been carved from stone and brought to life by the Maker himself.

Maker’s breath, he thought, what’s gotten into you? Next you’ll be spouting poetry like an Orlesian fop.

He started up the stairs, pausing when he heard someone call him. Trevelyan, stalking toward him with a frown that creased her forehead.

“Commander, will you join me at the war table?” she asked. “The situation in Crestwood has been dealt with, but there were some complications, and I have news of the wardens.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Let me gather my notes.” They walked up to his office together in silence, Cullen deliberately keeping his eyes facing forward and his thoughts firmly focused on the task at hand.


End file.
